


Live Nudes In Charcoal

by KelseyCat26



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Action/Adventure, Anal Sex, Art, Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Communication, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, Gay Sex, Gay Sherlock, Infant death in Ch 10, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is Gone for now, Mild Gore, Moriarty is Alive, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mystery, Past Drug Use, Post TAB, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock knows what he wants, Sherlock on Drugs, The boys learn how to talk to each other for once, Violence, no smut scenes with Molly/Mycroft/Greg, polyamory greg/molly/mycroft, season 4 references, smut with John and Sherlock only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 96,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8791354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyCat26/pseuds/KelseyCat26
Summary: Normalcy was all John wanted when he moved back into 221B Baker Street after his wife’s disappearance two months ago. However, normal is not a word that he would use in relation to Sherlock Holmes. With Sherlock’s recent relapse and John’s increasingly complex feelings about his flatmate, the pair was anxious for anything to distract them. When a case suddenly appears, they eagerly dive into the seeming normalcy of finding clues and putting the pieces together, just the two of them against the world. But The Work forced them into a university art course; John sees a new side of Sherlock - one that exposed more than he was prepared for (anticipated? Ever imagined?). As the case grows darker, both men find themselves barreling headfirst toward the unknown...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. This is my first JohnLock fic and on A03. On a whim, I watched the first season of Sherlock and I was wondering how people didn't see it. I had found TJLC videos, which only inspired my love of JohnLock. I want to say thank you for all the people who let me bounce ideas off of them. New chapters will be loaded when another chapter is written and beta-ed. Which leads me into:
> 
> I also want to thank my awesome beta- englandwouldfalljohn who cleans up my writing to make this story twice as awesome! I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normalcy, spit-spat, and the game is on...

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 1

John walked down the sidewalk with an armful of grocery from the nearby store, knowing that their supplies in the flat were dwindling nightly. He weaved around the sea of people as he made his way back to 221B Baker Street, his residence for the last two months. Since Mary’s disappearance and the reappearance of Moriarty. 

For the last two months, he had been with Sherlock, chasing leads, finding dead ends, and carrying a cloud of tiredness on his back. Which apparently showed on his face today since Sarah turned him away from his shift at the clinic this morning. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion, his time in the military had trained him for that, but the exhaustion of knowing nothing of Mary’s whereabouts, or why she left. It had been another afternoon, and she had told him she was meeting someone for lunch. John had kissed her goodbye, and returned home from the clinic to find her abandoned wedding ring on her bedside table.

Of course, he called Sherlock right away after discovering it. He watched as Sherlock roamed over the house with his studious eyes, taking in every detail as he could see them. In the end, John asked for Mycroft’s resources, while hearing endless complaints from Sherlock. Hoping with Sherlock’s mind and Mycroft’s connections, that they would discover something. Last night, they reached the latest lead. It seemed now that ‘Mary Watson’ was gone forever.

He didn’t know how to feel. At the beginning of their search there was panic, worry for the baby, and the mother of his child. There was also this nagging at the back of his head though, a sense of relief that he didn’t have to be with someone who shot his best friend, even if it was for his own protection, or whatever reasoning Sherlock had used. He didn’t have to deal with Mary, who had a dark hidden past on a flash drive that he burned away in the fireplace. He didn’t have to lie when he said that he would accept her. He didn’t have to lie and keep Sherlock away because he didn’t trust his wife not to shoot his best friend again. His own lies had him feeling guilty that his marriage fell apart and that he desired to have Sherlock in his life. Regardless of promising Sherlock that his married life wouldn’t change their friendship, it had. 

With the short courting, quick engagement, and the wedding, John felt like he had when he thought Sherlock was dead. That it was a means to an end and he was still grieving, moving forward one day at a time. When Sherlock was ‘dead’ his days were easier, knowing that he wasn’t out there. Living without him. Then he could settle into a life with Mary but that wasn’t the case. Instead, it was two halves of him, fighting each other and as he realized long ago, relationships and Sherlock couldn’t coexist together. He moved back into Baker Street, hoping to restart his life once again. To hopefully recreate the sense of normalcy that had existed before Mary, Moriarty, Sherlock’s one-time relapse on the plane, and start taking cases again.

As John approached 221B Baker Street, he spotted a familiar woman, and the familiar car that she was leaning against parked on the street in front of the door. 

“Hello,” he greeted as he paused, shifting the groceries in his hand for his keys. He nodded his head towards the flat. “Mycroft up there with him?”

The woman did not look up from her phone, plucking at the buttons as she answered curtly. “Yes.”

John paused between looking at her, and the golden tact across the black door. Then looking back to the woman again. John smiled meekly as the woman met his glance. 

“Right then. Someone should go see how that’s going,” he sighed, pushing the door open and closed with his foot, headed up the stairs and into the battle of the brothers. Underneath the unpleasant screeches of violin, John could hear low voices from the other side of the door, and he could picture the scene already. He paused on the landing, not knowing how to proceed into his own flat. 

“Dear brother, have you informed your Dr. Watson that you are out of leads to find his wife?”

“He knows, Mycroft.”

“Yes, but does he know how long you have been out of leads before last night? That in fact, you were lost as soon as you looked over their house. Instead, when he is at the clinic, you have been passing the time chasing your next fix and quenching your boredom.”

Sherlock’s voice came from the other side of the door after a few moments of a quiet pause, “It helps me think.”

“Childish excuse,” said Mycroft. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?”

John was aware that his hands were shaking as he opened the door leading into their flat. As he thought, Mycroft was in his dated red chair, a cup of tea perched his hands. He was aware of his anger, and worry. He had thought after finding Sherlock on the plane, it would be the last of it. Not being able to understand how such a brilliant person could be doing that, and underneath of the nose of a doctor. For two months!

He crossed the flat, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, and marched into the kitchen. He disposed the groceries on the table with more force than necessary, making Sherlock’s half of the table, which was littered in glass tubes of his most recent experiment, clink together in complaint. John busied himself by putting groceries away, refusing to answer any questions until he felt he wouldn’t snap. 

His answer seemingly wouldn’t have matter much, because the older Holmes continued. 

“You know I am concerned for you. I have found you a case to distract you, Sherlock. Perhaps it will wean you from your dangerous game.” 

The screeching of the violin made John jerk away from his task and into the living room. Sherlock had the chin rest resting on the side of his face. The bow was in the air, hovering over the strings as Sherlock retorted, his brow furrowed together. “I’m not being hunted, Mycroft.”

“But aren’t you? Moriarty returns and you’ve heard nothing more. You’re waiting to be hunted.”

John saw a flicker of something over Sherlock’s face. 

“No, I’m not,” he answered. Grey-green eyes had fixed on John for a moment, before turning back to Mycroft. “I’m simply not playing the game anymore.”

Mycroft placed his empty cup on the tea tray, and stood, pulling his suit jacket down to straighten the wrinkles. John looked between each brother, wondering what that conversation was about.

“See that you don’t, Sherlock. Your second death won’t be as easily believed as your first.”

Now the conversation moved into a silent exchange between the two brothers, John’s head turned back and forth, hoping to pick up on the wordless discussion. Moments later, Sherlock turned his head away, his violin wedged underneath his chin. Mycroft moved to the open door that John neglected to close behind him. John watched as the older Holmes brother twirled his usual accessory in his hand in habitual motion, even if the umbrella was unneeded for today. 

“Thank you for the tea, Sherlock. Goodbye Dr. Watson. I’ll be in touch.”

When the door clicked closed, John sighed. He stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. His arms folded across his chest. Silently, he watched as Sherlock deduced him with that distinctive gaze, as he had done to so many other people, before blinking. John wondered what Sherlock found since Sherlock’s face softened. 

“John-” 

He shook his head. His hand bolted up to stop him. 

“Don’t Sherlock-,” he murmured lowly. Wondering if he could make it through this conversation without scrambling for words like he always did. Words, emotions, were not his strong suit. Give him a gun, tell him shoot, he could handle. He thrived on it actually. Words escaped him. Emotions too. “I don’t want to hear that you’ve…” he trailed off.

Sherlock cut in, “I didn’t lie. I simply refrained sharing the information with you. Would it be better for you to hear that I had been taking drugs again to broaden my span of thinking, that I can discover new leads to find Mary?”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MARY!” John bellowed. 

He slammed his mouth shut immediately after his outburst, humming lowly, and closed his eyes, trying to gather himself before talking again. He walked forward, his hands resting on and then squeezing the worn fabric of the back of his chair. 

Glowering at Sherlock, John murmured. “I don’t care about finding leads. I’m a bloody doctor; I know the different between ‘taking’ and ‘using’, Sherlock. You are using drugs…” he paused, and hummed again before continuing lowly, -“you don’t need them to be brilliant, fantastic or any other way I’ve described you...how have you…I should have seen the signs.”

“I have had years to master acting normal-”

John scoffed. “Yeah? You’re not as great as you think you are.”

“You just stated otherwise,” Sherlock remarked, his mouth upturned slightly.

“With acting, Sherlock.”

“I know.” 

John huffed, fighting back a grin of his own as he deflated into his red chair. “I’m calling you an idiot, Sherlock. A bloody brilliant idiot.” 

Looking at his best friend, John grew serious. His doctor eyes roamed over the tightness around Sherlock’s eyes. Taking in the subtle twitches in Sherlock’s hands. The rather grey-sickly looking complexion compared to a healthy pale. 

“I can see that you are going through withdrawals already. You’re not using drugs again, you hear me? I want whatever supplies you have left. This stops now,” John ordered.

Sherlock placed his violin aside, and leaned forward. Darkened curls brushed over a pale forehead as calculative eyes narrowed. “Mycroft has been trying to get me clean for months, John. What are you going to do that he hasn’t?”

John leaned forward. His knees brushed against Sherlock’s. 

“We both know that Mycroft is a diplomat,” he whispered, his eyes stared into Sherlock’s grey-green pair of eyes. “I’m not. I’ll break your arms if I have to.”

“You know that I could still walk out of here.”

“I could break your legs too,” John added lightly, as if were just an afterthought. “I thought you would want those for cases though.”

“It would be a bit difficult to explain to the Yard why I have two broken arms at a crime scene,” countered Sherlock, the upturn of his lips now bloomed into a grin. 

Grinning back, John said. “I’ll tell them it’s an experiment then. They’ll believe that.”

“Are you certain?”

John hummed. “I guess you could tell them that I broke your arms. Doubt they would believe you though, everyone thinks that I’m some harmless sod. If you’re wanting to avoid anything broken, I guess I could tie you up here in the flat until you detox completely.”

“People might talk then, John.”

He couldn’t help but to grin. John echoed, “I’ve heard that people do little else.”

The air changed when John realized how close they had naturally migrated together. Their legs danced around each other’s. His hand somehow found Sherlock’s knee during their conversation. Through Sherlock’s dark trousers, John could feel how warm the other man was. John stared at his hand on Sherlock’s knee, and then shifted his glance up to Sherlock’s eyes. From knowing Sherlock as well as he did, John could see there was an undercurrent of annoyance, amusement, mirth, and something else.

His head started pounding. John felt hot, feverish, and flushed. He licked his lips, finding that he was suddenly parched. His thirst only grew when he saw Sherlock’s eyes following his nervous habit. Not that he was nervous. His heart spiked when a hand landed on his knee, flaring old feelings that he hadn’t experienced for a while. John stared at the hand resting on his knee, and a flash of gold caught his eye. 

Reflecting in the yellow rays from the sun through the open windows was his wedding band. John recoiled back, feeling the stab of rawness from his failed marriage, and the uncertainty of the situation. He bolted to his feet, and fled to lean on the doorway between the kitchen and living room. He focused on breathing for a minute, unaware that he had been breathing heavily in the first place. John cleared his throat. 

“Right then. I need your supplies.”

“No.”

John sighed, and gave his best friend a look of exasperation as Sherlock tore out of his chair to stand by the window. John fixed on Sherlock’s blue-robed back. 

“I wasn’t asking you, Sherlock. I will tear this flat apart.”

Over Sherlock’s shoulder, grey-green eyes fixed on John with a look that John was all too familiar with. It was Sherlock’s look of stubbornness, and perspective certainty. Or basically knowing that he’s always right. 

“The disorganization will bother you more than me. This conversation is dull and pointless.”

“Your behavior is pointless,” John countered lamely as Sherlock crossed the flat and dramatically flopped on the brown leather couch. John saw a flash of Sherlock’s face before the taller man turned, sulking, and giving John the view of his back. Shaking his head, John retreated into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sherlock’s voice came from the living room. “I’m bored.”

Peeking through the doorway, John found Sherlock in the same position. Still pouting, balled up on the couch. “You know, if you’re bored, do some experiments, you have body parts in the fridge, play your violin at obnoxious hours or shot the walls again. You are creative, think of some way to entertain yourself other than the drugs.”

“You moved your gun.”

John let out a huff of laughter. “Of course I did but you probably know where to find it.”

“On top of the fridge.”

“What was stopping you from having another row with the wall then?”

“Mrs. Hudson complained,” answered Sherlock.

The kettle whistled, calling John back into the kitchen. He fetched two mugs, quickly fixed tea, and returned back into the living room. Sherlock was sitting up now, with John’s laptop in his lap. John sighed, but at least Sherlock was entertaining himself. Placing one cup nearest Sherlock, John took to his chair. He sipped on his tea as Sherlock spoke. 

“You changed your password. ‘Fort Knox’, clever.”

“I thought I would challenge you,” smiled John, grabbing the newspaper from the small table next to his chair. 

“It took me a second longer.”

“Only a second?”

His teasing was apparently ignored. Or it was tuned out. A peace settled over them as Sherlock’s rapid typing echoed in the room. It was a sense of normalcy, or as much normalcy as one can have living with Sherlock. Despite still being pissed about Sherlock’s drugs- John was happy. He had missed this. He realized just then that as long as they were together, they could get through anything. The word ‘together’ echoed within his head, prying into his earlier feelings. Before he could delve further, Mrs. Hudson’s voice and the sound of footsteps echoed through the closed door. Then a knock rapped on the door, following Mrs. Hudson’s face peering into the flat. 

“Are you two finished having a domestic? You have a client; he’s a rather nice young man. Sounds like he’s in some serious trouble.”

Neither moved to deny that they had an argument. John met Sherlock’s eyes as the laptop was snapped shut. John grinned when Sherlock fluffed his hair, and stood, straightening up his suit. He tucked his newspaper away. He would read it a different day. Instead, he grabbed the notebook used for their cases, if Sherlock decided that this case met his standards. John smiled at Mrs. Hudson.

“Let him in, Mrs. Hudson. Let’s see what he has to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please comment/kudos and/or bookmark. Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 2. I hope everyone likes the chapter. Chapter 3 will be up in a day or so when I have another chapter written. Another thank you to my beta- englandwouldfalljohn for cleaning up my writing and making it great. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 2

The flat was silent when Mrs. Hudson ushered their client in, cooing softly as if she were talking to a wild animal. Quietly, the client moved through the doorway, and across the flat. He stood, holding his arms across his chest. The older woman encouraged the nameless man to sit on the brown leather couch that Sherlock had been in moments before. Instead, Sherlock yanked over the plain wooden chair, the one designated for clients. The man was dressed in black trousers and plain brown shirt that echoed the shade of his hair and eyes. He sat down, looking uncertain as many of their clients did, and the uncertainty only enhanced the client’s young features. John saw a look flash across the man’s face but not before glancing over both him and Sherlock in turn.

John fought not to roll his eyes, thinking that the man probably assumed something of their relationship, like everyone else did. That his thoughts probably fell in the line of ‘Not his date’, ‘Not his boyfriend’, or ‘Live-in P.A’ or some variation of all three. Thinking of Sherlock, John glanced over to him after he sat down. The taller man was fixed like a statue by the window. Arms crossed, stone features, the usual business face. One that painted him as a ‘high-functioning sociopath’ to the outside world and not as man that John knew him to be. Underneath the facade, he could see Sherlock’s mind churning in thought. He could also see his impatience. John cleared his throat, pushing forward because someone had to.

“What brings you here?”

Brown eyes blinked slowly, the man’s forgettable face looked up from his lap. “My sister.”

“What about your sister?”

Glaring, John shot Sherlock a silent look before turning back to the client. The man was frowning at the detective. John knew that it would be seconds before the man decided to leave the flat in an angry huff, forgoing the case, and leaving him and Sherlock alone. Even more worrisome, leaving John alone with his thoughts. He cleared his throat, and gave the man an apologetic smile.

“Don’t worry about Sherlock, he’s always like that. How about your name first? Then you can tell us about your sister and why you came here.”

John snorted when he heard Sherlock mutter from the window. “Dull.”

The man nodded; seemingly relaxed by John’s coaxing and either ignoring Sherlock’s remark or missing it entirely. “My name is Joseph Mollet. I think my sister is missing, I haven’t heard from her in three days. It’s unlike her.”

“How do you think it’s unlike her?” John prompted. His blue eyes met Sherlock’s, and the dark-haired man nodded slightly. “Are you and…”

“Merry,” supplied Joseph.

“Merry,” repeated John with an affirmation, “Close?”

Joseph nodded. “Our parents died when we were young. Car crash. We lived with our aunt and cousins until she went to college, and I could move out. She calls everyday. I’ve tried calling. Her phone is never off. I keep getting her voicemail.”

“You said that you heard from her three days ago?”

The brown haired man sighed and nodded. His head bobbed like it was the only action he could manage at this point. His eyes fell to his lap again. “Yeah. She had a row with her girlfriend, and was upset that she was getting mixed into that kind of scene.”

“What kind-”

“Drugs, John,” answered Sherlock. Joseph paused, staring at Sherlock with a look that John was far too familiar with. An expression of surprise at his brilliance. He partly wondered if his face -more often than not- looked as ridiculous.

“Continue,” demanded Sherlock.

Feeling his eyebrows meeting his hairline, John watched as Sherlock paced away from the window. His hands fixed underneath his chin in a steeple as he gracefully sat down in his chair. John fought not to roll his eyes again, knowing that if they were alone, Sherlock would flop onto the cushion with a sprawl of ungraceful limbs. He had been close to being kicked with one of those long legs several times.

“The last I heard from her, they were going to dinner…you know…trying to work things out. I haven’t heard from her since.” Brown eyes tracked between John and Sherlock. “Will you help me?”

“No.”

“Sherlock!”

He could see the word ‘Liar’.

_‘I’ll talk him around’_

_‘You will?’_

“File a missing person report at New Scotland Yard. This seems like a case that may appeal to their abilities. It might actually showcase some talent.”

“Talent? My-”

“Excuse us for a second,” muttered John. He tore out of his chair, and yanked Sherlock up by his forearm. It seemed that he knew what John was going to do because he offered no resistance, letting himself being pulled into the cluttered kitchen. John kept his voice low, fixing his eyes on Sherlock’s unwavering face.

“After listening to everything? You’re just going to turn him away?”

_Liar. It echoed in his head. Seeing the word float from Mary’s face. Seeing it float around their client’s._

“Yes. There’s nothing more to go on than a mobile phone conversation three days ago. He wouldn’t know of his sister’s whereabouts. He’s been out of town, backpacking judging by the way he carries his shoulders. Slightly hunched, like he had been carrying something heavy, pulls at the back, makes sitting difficult. You should know at least that much, common knowledge really, and you being a doctor-”

“Sherlock.”

“The wrinkles in the shirt and the dirt smudge on his inner elbow suggest that he washed his clothing in a hurry. Didn’t bother to hang them up to dry, but instead packed them away. Maybe he was staying with a friend, or perhaps a hostel. His unkempt hair makes me believe hostel, because no true friend would let him parade around-”

_Liar._

_Liar._

_Liar._

“Liar.”

John blinked. “What?”

His hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, keeping his friend upright as Sherlock suddenly slouched down, grabbed his hair and breathed heavily. He forced the taller man into a kitchen chair, wondering what the hell just happened. From a doctor’s perspective- as Sherlock ‘kindly’ reminded him- it seemed like a panic attack. Something dull and ordinary, and seemingly declared by Sherlock as something that he wouldn’t do. Yet, he here was. Breathing forcefully like his brain lacked oxygen. Or his body lacked the ability to know how to breathe.

“Sherlock, just sit here and relax. I’ll get Joseph out of here. Then I’ll make some tea.”

“I’m fine.”

“Aren’t you always?”

John didn’t wait for Sherlock’s remark, instead he ventured into the living room. The hopeful look on Joseph’s face disappeared, and utter defeat wrote itself over his face.

“He’s not taking my sister’s case, is he?”

“I don’t know,” John answered with a shrug. “Sherlock wouldn’t have mentioned New Scotland Yard if he thought they couldn’t handle it. File a missing person report, that’s your best bet.”

Joseph stood. His arms hugged his chest. “And if they don’t find anything?”

“Then I’ll talk to Sherlock. Want to leave your mobile number just in case?”

The other man nodded. John plucked the fallen notepad and pen from the floor, and handed it over. After a minute, John took the notepad back, glancing down at two sets of numbers.

“One’s my mobile. The second one is my work.”

“Right.”

Tucking the notepad away into his trouser pocket, John offered his hand. “I hope you find your sister.”

Wordlessly, Joseph turned away, and left the flat. John took back his hand, surprised more than anything, and closed the door behind him. The sounds of stomping footsteps echoed through the door, which was followed by a hard slam. Typically, the abuse of the front door was a reaction to Sherlock. Not to him. And here he thought that he was rather kind after Sherlock’s refusal.

Shrugging it off, John went upstairs to his bedroom and grabbed the extra medical kit from the back of his closet. He returned downstairs and into the kitchen where he left Sherlock. He blinked at the scene before him.

Sherlock’s purple shirt was open; the fabric hung over his hips, barely skimming the seat of the chair. His blue dressing gown was discarded in a pile by his feet. Long pale fingers trailed over a round shiny pink scar. John’s mind suddenly clicked. It was the scar from the gun shot wound, one that Mary caused. The injury that almost took Sherlock’s life. John hummed. There was guilt again about Mary, about Sherlock, and he should have seen it. His heart jumped when he thought of losing Sherlock again. It couldn’t happen. Luckily hadn’t happened. That didn’t mean that the wound didn’t.

John cleared his throat, and stepped into the kitchen, placing the medical kit gently on the table. Sherlock’s face up jerked to watch him. His nimble fingers pulled at his shirt, fixing the buttons through the buttonholes in haste. John snorted.

“Don’t button up on my account, Sherlock. I’ve seen you roaming around the flat with nothing but a sheet on.”

He grinned at Sherlock, and the dark-haired man chuckled.

Then John quickly asked, “How is it?”

“How’s what?”

“Your wound for one. Your head for another,” answered John. He reached out as Sherlock stood, pushing the taller man back down by his shoulder. John pulled a small torch from the kit, and clicked it on. It shone bright against the darkened kitchen floor.

“Sit, I want to check you out.”

“I’m fine, John.”

“I insist, Sherlock. You should know that it’s pointless to argue against your doctor.”

Stepping closer, John used his fingertips to tilt Sherlock’s face upwards. John ignored Sherlock’s hiss when he flashed the torch in those bright blue eyes. He was relieved that they dilated properly and the redness could be cleared up with a night’s sleep if Sherlock allowed it. He clicked off the professional doctor part of him and placed the torch on the table. Something jumped underneath his fingers. John froze, realizing that his hand had curved up Sherlock’s jaw, his fingertips covering Sherlock’s throbbing pulse. He met grey-green eyes.

“Your eyes changed colors again,” he muttered lightly.

Sherlock’s mouth tilted upwards. “Does my health meet your standards, Doctor? Or are you going to expound further upon about my prismatic eyes?”

Immediately, John removed his hand and stepped away, just now noticing that he had stepped between his best friend’s legs to look into his eyes. He muttered under his breath, calling Sherlock names. Sherlock laughed at him as he stood. John watched as he grabbed his blue dressing gown from the floor and slipped it back on. John wondered what the hell was going on with him. Twice in one day he had touched Sherlock. It was too close, too much, and almost…not nearly...enough. It wasn’t the first time that he had noticed Sherlock’s calculative eyes, or their color; although, it was the first that he mentioned it aloud. Not to mention, several of his remarks could constitute flirting. Unconsciously flirting. Maybe he was going mental.

“John?”

“Yes?” he squeaked. Oh yes, John knew that he was completely mental. He hadn’t squeaked since puberty. He cleared his throat, hoping to salvage any look of sanity.

“Overall, you’re fine, Sherlock. But you should eat tonight, and sleep, and that panic attack-”

“It wasn’t a panic attack.”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine, your ‘not-panic’ attack worries me. I’ve seen you worked up before but…”

Sherlock flatly stated, “Withdrawal symptom,” before leaving the kitchen. A moment later melody radiated from the violin and its player in the living room, flooding the flat with music. Remaining in the kitchen, John couldn’t help but feel like Sherlock was avoiding the situation. Was maybe lying to him. After all, he did hear the word ‘Liar’ spill from Sherlock’s lips. Who was the liar? What was Sherlock talking about? Was _he_ the liar? There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

Any more questions that whirled in John’s mind disappeared when the violin stopped. Soft padding of footfalls across the flat, then Sherlock appeared in the doorway, shedding his dressing gown.

“Lestrade needs us. Two bodies found.”

Sunlight still sparkled through the window, throwing an array of rainbow colors across the floor between them. John followed Sherlock into the other room as the taller man clamored into his large coat, and knotted the scarf around his neck.

“It’s midday. Who kills someone in bright daylight?” he questioned as he pulled his coat on.

“Precisely!” grinned Sherlock broadly before yanking John’s coat into place. John rushed to the kitchen and moved a chair to the refrigerator. He grabbed his browning, checking the safety before fixing the gun at the small of his back. He jumped down from the chair, and met Sherlock’s eyes as he waited in the doorway.

“Come along, John.”

“It’s a crime scene, Sherlock. It’s not going anywhere.”

His remark either went unheard, or ignored as Sherlock descended down the stairs, two at a time, before disappearing altogether. John followed just as quickly and yanked the black door closed. Sherlock hailed a cab; John quickly trailed inside after him.

They arrived at the crime scene quickly or as quickly as traffic would allow through central London. Dread settled into his stomach, recognizing Roland Kerr College. John turned to Sherlock, who seemed eager to jump out of the still moving cab to get to their faster.

“Remember Sherlock, no smiling at a crime scene.”

“I suppose giggling at a crime scene is frowned upon as well.”

“Most likely.”

John giggled anyway, despite knowing the reason why they were there. When the cab stopped, Sherlock flew out of the car. John paid the cabbie, and apologized. He followed Sherlock, reaching his side when Lestrade came over to the edge of the police tape.

“Greg,” greeted John. The inspector pinched the bridge of his nose and waved them through. His grey hair shone like bright silver in the sunlight as they walked past police cars and other officers.

“John, Sherlock, you know I wouldn’t have called if we knew something.”

“You don’t know anything anyway, Lestrade. There’s always something you miss,” Sherlock stated flatly.

John shook his head, and coughed. “Harry.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him. John noted that his eyes were steely-blue this time. Lestrade pressed forward, handing two pairs of gloves over to John. John wordlessly passed the other pair to Sherlock. John snapped the latex gloves on with ease.

“Two females. No IDs. From we can tell, maybe out of towners with a mugging gone wrong.”

The three men stood before the crime scene.

“Wrong.”

John smirked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 3. Thank you for commenting/reading it. I have to say I love awkwards moments and I hope you guys love them too. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
> 
> Shout out to amazing beta again- englandwouldfalljohn

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 3

John knelt by the second victim, face down on the sidewalk. The bright sunlight cascaded over the victim’s gray coloring, making the short blue, pink, and purple hair brighter. The body was cold and stiff through the thin latex of the gloves. John touched the wrist, admiring the blue hue of the fingertips. Rigor mortis had set in a long time ago, making time of death approximately six to eight hours previous. Late night or early day, depending on how one looked at it. John placed the appendage down and glanced over the darkened stain in the back of the victim’s coat. 

Judging from that infliction, it was too small to be a plain gunshot. John had seen a spread of gunshot wounds, this injury seemed too…he didn’t know how explain it, but gunshot wasn’t right. It seemed messier, or should have been with the amount of blood staining the victim’s back. John glanced over to Sherlock. He cringed slightly, finding the taller man working on the first victim with his small magnifying glass, digesting clues with his eyes whilst taking pictures with his mobile, and putting the puzzle together with his genius mind. Not to mention, sniffing the body. Before John could even protest about the ‘not good’ bit, Sherlock stood, then immediately sprang to John’s side, looking over the second victim with as much precision as the first. 

John switched to the other body, taking the silent hint to switch places. Long dark hair spilled over the white sidewalk. Eyes glassy. He looked over the grey skin with practice and ease. Same time of death as the other victim. This time, blood spread the front of the victim, over the heart. The blood had stained the green pea coat a dark brown. With this injury, the victim’s death was quicker. Other girl had suffered more. He rolled his eyes when he spotted Sherlock sniffing the second body.

“You’re sniffing the bodies again, Sherlock,” he remarked lowly. John glanced over at Lestrade, who was ignoring the two them at the moment, and talking into his mobile phone.

Sherlock snorted, “Yes, and I suppose it’s not good for other delicate sensibilities out there, is it? Time of death?”

John only nodded. “Yeah, a bit not good. The rigor set in about six, at latest, eight hours ago.”

“Cause of death?”

“Not a gunshot wound,” John answered confidently. “There’s something about the injury that’s messy, if it was a gun, the scene would be bloodier. Especially at close range. The injuries are too sloppy for distant-range as well. I’m thinking stabbing, hard to say with what until the measurements are taken. Actual cause of death would be exsanguination or loss of blood.”

Sherlock hummed. “Yes, and?”

“And, what?”

“What about the particular accuracy of the wounds? The odd bruising on the back of the necks? The yellow tinges around the fingernails of her left hand,” he pointed to the multi-colored hair victim, and then to the brunette, “and her right?”

“I didn’t notice, Sherlock.”

“No, of course not. But you were correct about the timeframe of death, John. They were killed late evening; you can see that their coats are fixed tightly around them, perhaps huddling together for warmth as they walked. Which suggests they were friends, or possibly closer - the same lipstick shade over their mouths. If they were strangers, they wouldn’t be keen on sharing personal space unless in tight quarters like the tube, and certainly wouldn’t share lipstick. By the scent of their jackets, and salt on their fingers, they were…at least…at three nearest pubs around campus, having crisps along with their drinks. Their hands did not have defensive wounds, so whoever killed them knew they wouldn’t be able to fight back. Whoever did it, was aiming for one target.”

“But there’re two bodies,” argued Lestrade, joining them, and eyeing the victims. “How do you know that there was only supposed to be one?”

“The killer stabbed one victim in the heart, and the other victim in the back. One wound was more brutal than another. The heart, more personal, they would have to be face to face. I believe you might have the beginnings of a serial killer. The killer messed up. They’ll want to try again,” Sherlock answered.

“Brilliant,” murmured John. Sherlock’s mouth turned up at the corners, seemingly fighting back a smile. John smiled at him anyways, telling Sherlock that he understood. 

Lestrade groaned. He rubbed a hand over his face, “Their fingerprints are getting programed into the system. We’ll know more once we have their names.” 

“There’s one more thing, Lestrade. This isn’t your crime scene,” declared Sherlock, stripping off of his gloves, and snapping the small magnifying glass closed. He tucked it away with his other crime scene supplies in his coat. John stood, ripped off his pair of gloves, and deposited them in the nearest bin. Wordlessly, he grabbed Sherlock’s, and threw them away as well. 

Lestrade huffed. “What makes you think that? We found them here.”

“Where’s the blood, Lestrade?”

“Excuse me?”

“This is murder, not a mugging,” stated Sherlock. He waved his hand over the crime scene. “A 70kg person contains 5.5 liters of blood. Times that by two. There are no traces of blood on this pavement. So where is it? I don’t recall blood being able to evaporate out of thin air. The bodies were dumped here.”

The inspector stared down at the bodies before slumping his shoulders, defeat written over his face. He sighed. “A serial killer? Damn. It bloody fits, taking the personal belongings, the viciousness of the attacks-”

“Attack,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Choosing the victims-”

“Victim.”

“Sherlock,” cautioned John. “There are two bodies, two victims, regardless of how they were killed or how they were supposed to be killed. Sentiment.”

“Ah.” 

“Waited for a weakness,” finished the inspector, completely ignoring the other two men. John patted Lestrade’s shoulder sympathetically. 

Lestrade muttered, “What the hell can we do then?”

John glanced over to Sherlock as the taller man flipped his coat collar up. “Nothing but wait until the killer strikes again. Text me with more details.”

“I always do, Sherlock. Whether I want to or not.”

“Tell Molly to text once the bodies are at St. Barts. I want to look over them in the lab.”

Before either man could say much more, they watched Sherlock stalk away in thought, his hands fixed beneath his chin. John nodded at Greg before quickly jogging after Sherlock’s coattails to catch with his longer stride. He ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and caught up with Sherlock as soon as he stopped. 

“So back to the flat then?”

“No.”

“Care to elaborate?” John asked, and Sherlock stalked away again. John sighed in exasperation, stomping after him. He was a bit irritated with the taller man and his stupid long legs. 

“Sherlock, where are we going?”

“Do you care for a drink, John?”

“Now?”

“There are lots of reasons why people would drink at midday. Frankly, those types of people could have the most interesting stories.”

“You don’t care about people or their stories,” chimed John flatly. “What’s this really about?”

Sherlock whirled around, taking John by surprise, his pale hands cupping over each shoulder. His blue eyes stared down at John. “The crime scene is nearby. The killer would have followed them from whatever pub they were at.”

“So you’re thinking we retrace the girls’ steps, and we’ll find the crime scene?”

“Obviously,” remarked Sherlock as he began walking again. John hustled to meet his stride.

“And why couldn’t you have just said that?”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Because it gave me time to pickpocket your mobile, so you don’t phone Lestrade right away.”

“Sherlock.” John rolled his eyes. “They will need to know about the crime scene and you don’t have a pattern for calling them while ‘stumbling’ on evidence.”

“I called them...”

“That was one time. You and I both know that’s not going to happen again and I want my mobile back.”

John nearly crashed into Sherlock when the consulting detective suddenly stopped. He glanced over the brick building. A faded blue awning hung crookedly over the dark wooden door, the word PUB barely seen even in the sunlight. The windows were dark. Quiet. John read over the business hours tacked on the door.

“It’s closed,” John announced, he glanced over to Sherlock, who was…nowhere to be found. 

“For God’s sakes.”

He stalked down the alleyway. It smelt of stale water, day old piss, and putrid trash from the bins lined against the brick wall. The metal fire escapes creaked overhead. It was colder down the alleyway due to the shade from the other building, but sunlight still penetrated through the darkness. His eyes scanned for a way into the empty pub, running through the list in his head of Sherlock’s favorite ways to break in. Open windows on the upper fire escape, perhaps? Or just waltz in? John spotted the side door slightly ajar. Planting his back to the dirty brick wall, John angled for the gun at the small of his back as he slowly pushed the metal door open with his other hand. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

The consulting detective whisked through the door seconds later, his coat rustled through the wind as he strode away. “Not this one, John. Do keep up.”

John mumbled curses under his breath before grinning as he chased after his best friend down the crowded pavement. He stayed quiet as Sherlock lead them to the next pub. Looking straight ahead, John easily saw people tripping over themselves once their eyes landed on his taller companion. John wondered if Sherlock could see the effect that he had on both women and men. Then again, the man sees everything, he probably knew when someone was flirting with him or checking him out. John glanced over, catching Sherlock’s side profile hidden away by his coat collar. His face was passive as usual, all business as they walked through the streets.

When Sherlock finally stopped, John glanced over the other crime scene possibility. White bricks reflected the sun like snow. Shutters were bright blue, unlike the usual sky in London. Rainbow lights flickered in the upper frame of the large bay windows and were the only light source within the darkened pub. John didn’t bother reading over the business hours this time. Instead he followed Sherlock as he rounded the corner of the building hidden away from the main street. John grabbed the door handle and jiggled it. It was locked. 

John rocked on his heels innocently, trying to block the sight of Sherlock lock picking from random people that might happen to walk by. Something patted his lower back and John flew inside after Sherlock. The door rang above their heads. He met Sherlock’s emerald green eyes as the bell chimes echoed throughout the empty pub. Floorboards above their heads creaked, voices resonated from…upstairs. 

Together, in perfect synchronization, they both bolted through the sea of green and blue tables, made a dash for behind the bar as a light flickered on. It barely illuminated the entire pub. Liquor bottles rattled when their backs hit against the bar. John grabbed his gun from his back, steadily waiting for the ambush.

He clicked the safety off as footfalls echoed nearby. He was prepared. His hand was steady; the gun felt right in his grip. It felt right having Sherlock by his side. Everything about the situation felt right, even the questionable danger that was heading their way. He breathed calmly, maintaining the composure of a soldier.

“I told you I heard the bell ring.”

“The bell rings any time the wind blows on the door,” came a second male voice.

“I know that, but I know I heard something.”

Two men shuffled through the pub, bickering as they went. John rather hoped that they wouldn’t notice the unlocked door. Or find them behind the bar, sitting on the sticky floor. That would be rather difficult to explain.

“Like a bell?”

“Or the bells of heaven while you were sucking my cock.”

There was a snort that echoed through the pub. “I don’t know about you, but I rather get back to that.”

There was a deep chuckle, footsteps, and the telltale familiar sound of a zipper dragging downwards. Then a gasp, followed by a pleased groan.

John’s eyes widened. Right then and there, he felt rather silly with his gun in hand. He gingerly clicked the safety on. The urge to laugh twisted in his stomach. He was in a ‘closed’ pub, listening to two blokes sucking each other off with his best friend next to him in the dark. The metal gun slid against his sweaty palm. John felt his face getting heated, as the sounds from the two men grew dirtier, filthier from the sucking, from the breathless panting, and the nameless man’s praising through his moans. 

His heart pounded in his chest. Heat pooled into his lower body, reacting in a surprising fashion considering the source. He wasn’t gay, but his body reacted in ways that told him that the idea was fine. Oh, it was just fine. Just fine really. The hand that wasn’t occupied by the gun, reached for stability from the sticky floor. His hand landed on something warm, solid, and it jumped underneath his touch. John glanced down, finding his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. John fought every urge to glance over at Sherlock, wondering if…

There was lewd wet pop before a rough masculine voice spoke. “I think we should take this back upstairs.”

The other man laughed and the sound of a zipper being drawn closed. “What? You don’t fancy breaking another table? Could always add another green one.”

“Not this month. I’ll settle for shagging you over the couch.”

“Promise?”

Two pairs of feet ran by the bar, the owners chuckling and talking lowly. The light clicked off, drowning the pub in darkness again. A door slammed in the distance. Moans radiated from upstairs, along with a rhythmic scraping sound. John swallowed heavily. Placing a hand on the bar, he stood carefully, stunned to find his knees were a bit weak. He tucked his gun away. Heat flushed over his face when he found Sherlock staring at him with his calculative eyes before turning away. He followed Sherlock through the pub, going out the back door, thankfully without a bell overhead. 

As soon as they were in a different alleyway, with the pub door closed behind them, John lost it. His back met the white bricks. Laughter spilled from his lips as tried to form a coherent sentence.

“I…my gun…I was going to…” John motioned with his hand. He doubled over, holding his ribs as he laughed.

Sherlock’s deep laughter joined his. “I didn’t know…that was unexpected.”

John laughed harder. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “I thought you were leading us into danger…again!” John leaned against the wall again and threw an arm over his face, giggles still poured out from his lips. “Oh Christ…I thought we would have to listen to them shag.”

“John.”

“Give me a minute, Sherlock,” he huffed while his laughter subsided into smaller giggles.

“John.”

John lowered his arm at the tone of Sherlock’s voice, the seriousness standing out from their laughter just seconds ago. “What is it?”

He pushed away from the wall, and followed Sherlock further down the alleyway. Wordlessly, John took in the scene before them. Blending in with the red brick of the neighboring building was a streak of dark red stain. Then a pool of dark red hugged the wall. In the middle of the blood, sat a silver knife, and a large leaf. “We found it.”

“Yes.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Two ideas.”

A pale hand with his mobile hovered in front of his vision. John took it and dialed Lestrade’s number. Five minutes later, Sherlock had finished looking over the new crime scene as other officers arrived. They were shooed away by Lestrade, promising to Sherlock that he would text when they knew something. 

John followed Sherlock as they walked away to the main road in search of a cab. The day started to fade into evening. 

“What do you think?”

Sherlock remained quiet. John sighed. “Dinner then?”

“Alright.”

“Thai?”

“Italian.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, chapter 4 is here. I want to say that 'Bow' pub is completely made-up and I don't know if I should be naming chapters as I go. I want to say thank for everyone who has commented/kudos/and bookmarked. I'm a glutton for more. This chapter was beta-ed by 'englandwouldfalljohn'. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 4

When they bustled through the Angelo’s door, the restaurant was packed with people. Heat and the scent of garlic chased away the cold, bitter London air. John glanced over to Sherlock, wondering if they would abandon Angelo’s because of the overwhelming noise and order take-in at the flat. Sherlock was gone. John found his coat through the humming buzz of voices. The taller man drifted around with ease, people parting for him, and found an empty table tucked away in a darkened corner, and where he disappeared from John’s sight. 

A lone candle was a beckon through the crowd. After many apologies for bumping into multiple bodies, John finally made it to the table. It was smaller than their usual booth in front, which was currently occupied by a group of seven. John licked his lips, wondering how two grown men could share it. His heart started pounding as it did before in the bloody cab to get here. Sharing a space with Sherlock seemed to jump-start every nerve in his body. John shed his coat at an alarming speed. He was tempted to yank his favorite tan jumper off over his head just to get some cooling reprieve.

He tossed his coat on the back of the chair just as Angelo appeared with a grin on his face and two menus. John took them and sat down. His knees bumped into Sherlock’s. John jerked away, tucking his legs as closely to the wall as he could. He handed a menu to Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock took it and green eyes flickered over it.

“You chose a different table. Romance on your mind?”

John gave the stockier man a small smile that was more pained than friendly. 

“More like dinner.”

“Of course! Order anything you like!”

John quickly glanced over the menu as Angelo waited at their table. The bearded man shouted over his shoulder, over the crowd, to the kitchen. Angelo turned back to them. 

“Shrimp scampi with linguini,” John ordered then added. “Please.”

“I’ll take my usual, Angelo.”

“Good. Good. I’ll bring some wine too,” nodded the owner, and snatching the menus from them.

As John opened his mouth to protest that they don’t need wine, the restaurant owner disappeared with another grin. He danced around the crowd, his white shirt vanishing into the kitchen. His booming voice carried through out the restaurant. John turned back to Sherlock. His brow furrowed together as he remarked. 

“Since when do you have a usual? You don’t normally eat.”

“As I recall, there was doctor who recommended that I should.”

John grinned. “Sounds like a superb doctor then.”

“He is. One of the best men I know.”

Rubbing his hands together, John leaned back in his chair. His heart was jumping again. He could feel beads of sweat running down his spine, making him squirm. John pulled at his shirt collar. He licked his lips. Sherlock’s remark could have meant nothing. It was probably nothing. It was practically fine. But ever since the pub, John felt something under his skin. After finding out that everything was perfectly fine. More than fine, because hearing two men…being together…didn’t exactly bother him. Well, it was a different kind of bother. It was the same kind of bother when he wasn’t satisfied and hadn’t been for a long time. It was something that he should address soon, quickly in fact, if he wanted any of his sanity left. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock’s eyes, roaming over him, fully dilated. He could recall the feel of Sherlock’s thigh under his hand. John rubbed a hand over his face. God, he needed think of something other than his best friend. He needed to change the topic. 

“So you had two ideas about the crime scene then.”

Swooping in, Angelo deposited two glasses and a bottle of wine on the table with another smile before evaporating again. John froze as he went for the glasses just as Sherlock grabbed them. 

Sherlock poured the wine as he spoke. John watched pale fingers hugging the shallow stem. “John, you usually chastise me for conversing about murder in a public setting.”

John cleared his throat, finding it dry. “Yes, but it’s loud enough in here that no one is going to care. So two ideas then?”

Sherlock nodded and placed a glass of wine in front of him. John was thankful, not knowing if he could survive another sporadic touch while feeling whatever he was feeling at the moment. John snatched the glass and guzzled half. His thirst still burned at the back of his throat. Sherlock spoke and John leaned forward so he could hear the low bass of the detective’s voice over the crowd. 

“The victims were at the Bow pub, I had found residue of crisps and salt mashed into the groves of the tiles while the occupants were otherwise…” Sherlock paused and blinked, “occupied. The third pub is unimportant now that we found where they were killed in the alleyway. Samples of blood and the leaf are going to be taken to Bart’s; I’m sure. Hopefully Molly is looking over the victims now so we don’t have to wait until the killer strikes again.”

“What about the leaf in the blood puddle? It didn’t look like something from around here.”

“I didn’t take you for botanist, John.”

John smirked, then smiled. “Flowers all look the same, except the colors. I’m sure I’ve never seen a tree leaf like that around London. It seemed similar to palm trees in Afghanistan.” 

“Yes. Assuming Molly does her job correctly, the samples should be getting analyzed soon.”

“But not soon enough for you.”

Sherlock snorted. “No.”

John nodded. “What about Lestrade?”

“An idiot,” Sherlock replied simply before taking a sip of wine. “Hopefully fingerprints will prove positive for leads, otherwise I should be called in tomorrow morning.”

“So, it’s waiting then.”

“Obviously.”

John finished his wine, savoring the taste on his tongue. He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say exactly. He met Sherlock’s gray eyes. “John, I feel like there’s a need to apologize. I did not assess what happened in the pub properly. I understand if you were placed in a awkw-”

John’s eyes widened. He shook his head and he waved his hand. “No, no, no, no, Sherlock. I should apologize, I didn’t mean to…” he trailed off. The words ‘touch you’ were on his lips, wanting to leave. John couldn’t. Not yet. Instead he cleared his throat. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, like you said, it was unexpected that’s all.”

Sherlock hummed at him, eyes still calculative, lips perched around his wine glass. John couldn’t help but to feel transfixed by Sherlock’s mouth, his throat, and the way he held the glass in his hands. John snatched the wine bottle quickly. He poured his glass half full.

“So the killer will mess up?”

“Yes, I am sure of it.”

With great timing or luck, Angelo returned to their table with their orders. It smelled heavenly. John’s stomach turned, desperate for his first meal since the apple he had eaten earlier this morning before his shift at the clinic. John devoured his order eagerly. As he chewed he watched Sherlock eat. It was enlightening; a rare sight that showed Sherlock was human and not devoid of human needs. Even though he had witnessed Sherlock’s human side more than once, most of the time it was a battle to get him to eat one bite, especially on a case. Here, now, Sherlock was taking one bite after another like he couldn’t get enough. The candlelight reflected in Sherlock’s eyes, and undetectable to anyone but John, there was tiredness. Something nagged at the back of his head, the doctor part of him when he sees a patient; John cleared his throat. 

“So, you’re feeling alright then? It’s been since yesterday that you’ve had…”

Utter shock flickered over Sherlock’s face, before all emotions were schooled away with a blink. John frowned at the closure. “There’s a woman, long blonde hair, late 30’s at the bar who has glanced over fifteen times in the last seven minutes. Clearly scouting for a companion for only tonight.”

John shrugged and took a drink of wine. “She probably recognizes you from the newspapers or the blog, take your pick.”

“I’m not the one she’s currently fixated on.”

Sherlock’s words made him pause. John exhaled and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the bar. The woman wasn’t looking at him, but sipping on her drink. Looking at her, she was fairly attractive and could have anyone in the restaurant. When her eyes found his and winked, a surprising jolt went through him. 

That after everything, he was still desired, even lusted after. One-night stands weren’t really his thing anymore, not since his military days; he was more a romantic at heart, which apparently echoed through his blog as Sherlock had complained before. Could he simply be with someone and not expect anything but satisfaction of a good shag? What about conversations over dinner? Or random talks in the middle of the night? Or even the stupid bickering about nothing? There was movement out of the corner of his eye, John turned, finding Sherlock had stood, adjusting his scarf.

“Where are you going?” John asked, choosing to ignore the accusation in his tone. He motioned at Sherlock’s wine glass. “You haven’t finished your drink.”

The remainder of Sherlock’s glass was downed in a second. “I’m returning to the flat. I need to think.”

The crowd in Angelo’s had thinned out over the course of their dinner, Sherlock quickly strode outside, waving his arm about to hail a cab. John hurriedly snatched his coat from the back of the chair and ran after him. He was stopped by Angelo and forced to be polite say goodbye and promising to return soon. The black cab pulled back into traffic once John got outside. He stood in the bitter London air alone. There was a tap on his shoulder. John turned around, surprised to see the blonde from the bar.

“Hello,” she greeted shyly, her fingers played with her long hair. “I’m sorry if I made your friend uncomfortable. I’m not typically that forward, but would you like to go back inside for dinner, well you’ve had dinner, but a drink then?”

His eyes flickered from the woman in front of him and the dark road where the cab had long vanished. John smiled politely. She was attractive and there. He could get off with her if he wanted; Sherlock had said that she was looking for a night companion. But it felt off, not right. Going home with her just for a shag wouldn’t make him feel any better, even if he did need some relief. He wasn’t the man for a one-night stand. He missed being wanted for more. Being a part of something, in love with someone who had nothing to hide, who loved him back. He brandished his left hand, showing the ring of his failed marriage. “I’m actually married.”

The woman stepped back with a look of both horror and surprise. “Oh, that was your husband! I’m so sorry, I thought…”

“No, he’s not my husband. My wife left me two months ago.”

“So, your boyfriend then?”

John sighed. “Best friend and flatmate.”

“Really? It seemed like something more until he nodded at me for looking at you. It startled me, he’s incredibly handsome, seems untouchable.”

“You have no idea,” John murmured. 

The woman rubbed her hands together and blew on them. “Well, I best be getting back inside, if you want you can join me for a drink, but there’s a waitress that I was hoping to get to know better if you didn’t-”

Smiling, John shook his head. “No, thank you for the offer though. I should be getting back home. Goodbye then and good luck.”

“You too,” the blonde woman waved, went inside, John watched through the window as the nameless woman reclaimed her earlier perch with a smile directed to another woman in Angelo’s uniform. 

John savored the gust of warm air that escaped from the restaurant before starting back home. He pulled his coat tighter then set off. His fingers were well numb when he turned the corner of Baker Street. He could hear the violin reverberating through the darkened street before seeing Sherlock’s silhouette in the second story window. 

He pushed open the black door, welcoming the warm air smelling of cinnamon from whatever Mrs. Hudson was baking in her flat. The feeling in his hands returned as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The music stopped when he walked in.

“I thought you would be out.”

John smiled. He shrugged his shoulders, shrugging off his coat as well, and hung the article of clothing up beside Sherlock’s coat. He rubbed his hands together, enjoying the heat from the lit fireplace. “Turns out we had nothing in common.”

“How much do you need in common for that kind of activity?”

Walking into the kitchen, John answered as he put the kettle on, “A bit more than you think. It would make for some awkward pillow talk afterwards.”

“It was obvious that she found you attractive.”

John snorted, peaking into the living room where Sherlock stood in front of the window, rubbing the back of his head with the violin bow. “ Yes, and she also found you attractive along with a waitress at Angelo’s.”

“Ah.”

“A part of me was also wondering when you would appear since you usually like meddling in my relationships.”

“It wasn’t going to be a relationship,” Sherlock pointed out.

“You know what I mean.”

The kettle whistled; John fixed two cups of tea and then carried them out to the living room. He placed Sherlock’s teacup on the desk. John sat down in his red chair, grinning when Sherlock gingerly placed the violin down to immediately go after his cup.

“It’s your favorite,” John remarked lightly as he took a sip as well.

Sherlock hummed at him. John shook his head, taking it as a ‘thank you’ before grabbing the newspaper that he’d wanted to read earlier. 

“I heard the violin while I was walking back. It sounded like something new.”

China clinked together when Sherlock set down his teacup. “I’m composing.”

John paused. He swallowed heavily; recalling the last two times that Sherlock had composed a piece. One: The Woman. Two: Was something that he wished to move on from. 

“Oh?” he questioned casually, flipping the newspaper open with shaking hands. “You said it helps you think…what are you thinking about?”

Sherlock’s grey-green eyes met John’s as the taller man plucked up the violin once more. The chin piece of the violin situated underneath his chin, Sherlock turned away answering over his shoulder. “Everything.”

Violin music radiated throughout the flat. John sipped his tea, scanning through the paper, listening to pencil scratching as Sherlock decided on the notes. Every so often, he would offer an opinion, causing them to bicker. It wasn’t too much longer until John couldn’t contain his yawning. He didn’t bother to disturb Sherlock who was fully engrossed in his task. John brushed his teeth, went upstairs, changed his clothes, and climbed into bed. He drifted off to the sounds of the violin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5. I should explain that I'm from the States, so some settings will be 'made-up' for the purpose of this story. I would appreciate if this fic somehow made it on the Tumblr rotation- I don't have a tumblr myself. Thanks to all who has kudos/commented/bookmarked. This chapter was beta-ed by my wonderful beta 'englandwouldfalljohn'. Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 5

He bolted upright in bed, panting; a faint sheen of sweat covering over his skin. His heart pounded in his ribcage. John groaned, throwing his thin sheet on the floor in frustration, glaring at the state of his lower body, straining against his pants. Bright sunlight gleamed through the window, splashing an array of scattered rainbows over bed. He flopped down on his back, throwing an arm over his eyes to try to cast flashes of his dreams from his mind. Thin pale fingers trailed over his skin. A deep voice accompanied by dark curls. Lips wrapped around a certain part of his anatomy. Even without recalling all the details, there was only one person near him who fit a profile like that. Sherlock. 

John stared at the plain ceiling, thankful that at least they weren’t nightmares. The last time he had dreamt about Sherlock, it was the time after his ‘The Fall’ from St. Bart’s. Nightmares that starred Sherlock filled his head up, haunting him until he stopped sleeping altogether. Seeing him everywhere was the main motivation of moving away from Baker Street for those two years. 

Last night was a different experience entirely. He sat up again, and rested his bare feet on the cold floor. He mindlessly ran a hand through his hair. His head still groggy from the tossing and turning all night, and from the restlessness that burned underneath his skin. When his body was settled, John tugged a white shirt on over his head. He pulled his robe from the back of his bedroom door, tying it closed around him. John ventured downstairs seeking to satiate his sudden burning desire for coffee.

The living room was empty as he padded through. Upon entering the kitchen, John found Sherlock glued to his microscope. He shuffled to the coffee maker, filling it full of water as he asked. “Experiment or the case?”

“Experiment.”

John fetched the coffee grounds from the cabinet. He poured two scoops into the filter. “Been up all night?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the coffee maker for a minute, before adding a third. “I thought I said something about getting some sleep.”

He pressed the ‘on’ button and leaned back on the counter, glancing at Sherlock when a witty retort never came. John fixated on pale fingers delicately twisting the knobs. Sherlock’s face was set in the utmost focus; probably going unnoticed that John was looking him over, checking him out in a sense. He exhaled, flushing from what he just thought, from what he remembered, from how his body reacted.

“Heard from Lestrade yet?”

“Nope.”

The slight ‘pop’ of Sherlock’s lips made John jump, recalling ‘The Incident’ as he called it in his head. He pushed away from the counter, slowly migrated around the table to the hallway. “I’m going to take a bath then.”

John fled from the kitchen completely and into the loo before Sherlock could say anything more. He stared at himself in the mirror, as he held on the porcelain sink with both hands. The tired lines underneath his reddened blue eyes were more pronounced today from his lack of sleep. His blond hair was now more on the silvering side, not at all what he wanted to see. He knew he was getting older, but greying wasn’t something he wanted yet, not when felt quite young still. He ran a hand through his tresses, eyeing the golden band on his finger in the reflection of the mirror. 

John glanced down at his left hand, staring at the symbol that was supposed to mean a lifetime of happiness. That happiness had been short lived. This ring and the woman he had shared the matching set with brought him nothing but pain, confusion, and a bit of stupidity on his end. He hadn’t deserved it. Or maybe he did. He did seem to attract a certain kind of person. Maybe the lack of happiness was his fault somehow. Maybe this was his punishment for lives ending in the war, lives that he couldn’t save, that now his life couldn’t be happy. Frowning at that thought, John ripped the ring from his finger and slammed it onto the sink. 

He met his reflection again. His shoulders felt lighter somehow. Removing the ring was a step forward. It was time to start anew. To find the happiness that everyone should have, and deserved. Optimism seemed to make his face years younger. He was going to be happy, as he had been yesterday, on a case with Sherlock again. 

Moving to the bathtub faucet, John turned the knobs until a steady stream of water splashed at the bottom. He closed the drain when the water was perfect and a hot steam started to drift through the room. He stripped efficiently, folding his clothes as he disrobed. Gingerly, he sank into the water, hissing at the temperature before relaxing entirely. His eyes drifted closed, he dunked underwater, wetting his hair, and enjoying the peace.

“JOHN!”

Well, a second of peace then. John opened his eyes, glaring at the closed loo door, expecting Sherlock to burst through, as he has done before. He covered himself with a small flannel, waiting. Seconds ticked by, and still nothing. John sighed. 

“What, Sherlock?”

“I need my mobile!”

“I’m in the tub, remember?”

“MRS. HUDSON!”

John ripped out of the water, fixing his towel around his waist before yanking open the bathroom door. “You’re not going to bother Mrs. Hudson for your bloody-”

He stalked into the kitchen and found it empty. Stomping into the living room, John found Sherlock, eyes closed, lying on the couch, fingers to his temple. 

John shook his head at him. “Where’s your mobile?”

“Left trouser pocket.”

Water pooled around his feet as John just stared at Sherlock in disbelief before rolling his eyes. He crossed the living room. John leaned over the couch, bracing against the leather with one hand, while diving with the other into Sherlock’s trouser pocket. He struggled against the couch to find the right angle to get Sherlock’s mobile phone. 

“Tilt your hips up, would you?” John groused. 

Slender hips tilted upward, John’s hand slid inside the silk pocket. 

“Better?”

His hand closed around the mobile. “Perfect. I got it.”

“Sherlock dear? Did you-”

The flat door opened before John could say anything. There was silence. John knew what this looked like. He was scantily clad in a towel, dripping wet, perched over Sherlock. His hand angled into the couch for Sherlock’s pocket. From the door, it probably looked bad. Judging from Mrs. Hudson’s widened eyes, a smile blooming across her face, he was right. 

“Oh my…I’m sorry…”

The door clicked closed before he could protest. 

John yelled through it. “Mrs. Hudson, it wasn’t what it looked like!”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried through the door, “Don’t mind me. I didn’t see anything.”

“Mrs. Hudson! I wasn’t-”

“You’re dripping on me.”

He stared at the closed door before turning back to Sherlock, glowering at him. 

“I’m dripping on you?” John repeated in disbelief, he pulled Sherlock’s mobile phone out from his pocket and dropped on Sherlock’s chest. “I was in the bath! You could have gotten it on your own! It was in your pocket!”

“I was preoccupied! Mrs. Hudson was-”

“Yes, make Mrs. Hudson grope your mobile out of your trousers. That would be something! You could’ve gotten it!”

“I was thinking,” Sherlock repeated lowly. “And it was hardly groping, John. Do refrain from being a drama queen.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Drama queen? Says the one shouting around the flat for someone to wait on you! You know what, you could’ve said something to her, explain that I wasn’t groping you. Instead, you just laid there being…being an utter cock!”

Sherlock shrugged. “What would be the point? Mrs. Hudson has seen us in more precarious positions before. You were only retrieving my mobile phone from my pocket.”

Shaking his head purposely, John sent more water sprinkling over Sherlock’s face.

“You know what I mean!”

“You want me to explain to Mrs. Hudson that the position in which she caught us wasn’t ‘groping’ or anything of that sort, but simply you digging into my trousers for my mobile phone?”

“Yes! But you never correct anyone when they assume anything!”

“You’re still dripping on me.”

“And quite on purpose I’ll admit,” John snapped.

A long leg kicked out and caught John in the back of his knees. John toppled forward, landing partly on his knees. His shoulder and the rest of his upper body landed on Sherlock, who grunted from the force. 

John propped himself up on his elbow to glare at Sherlock. “You didn’t have to kick me, Sherlock!”

“You were dripping on me!”

“So? You were being a complete tosser! You bothered Mrs. Hudson-”

“I asked you first!”

“I was taking a bath!”

The two men glared at each other, both breathing heavy. John licked his lips. Something changed in the air when grey-green tracked the movement. His mind flickered through his dreams from last night. He felt himself growing flushed. Underneath his other hand, he could feel Sherlock’s heart drumming through his skin. His fingertips dug into the silk shirt, tempting to either push away or pull closer. John didn’t know. His head swirled, watching in complete fascination as Sherlock’s pale throat bobbed heavily. 

“John-”

His hand enclosed a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt. 

Light touches trailed over his bare shoulder. Goosebumps broke over John’s skin. 

“Sherlock-”

A muffled chime sounded from nearby. John blinked, remembering that Sherlock’s mobile was sandwiched between them. He jumped to a stand. His hands fixed over his towel as Sherlock sat up from the couch with his phone in hands. Pale fingers flew over the buttons while he spoke. 

“Molly is finished with bodies.”

John nodded. “So, we’re going to Bart’s?”

“Yes.”

Swallowing the lump in throat, John stepped away. “I’ll go get dressed then.”

“Ten minutes, John.”

Shaking his head, John retorted as he walked to his bedroom, “It will take you longer than that to get ready yourself, Sherlock.” A slamming door was the only answer. 

In five minutes time, John was dressed and downstairs, sitting, reading through their most recent bills. Or he was trying to read through the most recent bills, wondering what would have happened. Why his eyes were centered on Sherlock’s mouth. Why he practically vibrated with desire to pull him closer, and why he regretted pulling away. He watched the clock, seeing if Sherlock was going to be true to his ten-minute deduction. Sherlock stalked into the living room, pristine as usual, pulling on his large coat with swiftness. It had been eight minutes. John stood and grabbed his coat. Off they went.

The traffic to Bart’s was miserable. John was pleased to pay the cab and let Sherlock stalk away. What could have happened at the flat was still in the forefront of his mind. Wondering again. He wasn’t opposed to it. In fact, the mere idea of closing in had John’s skin tingling. He could hear Sherlock before he walked into the morgue. The dark-haired man paced the room, ranting under his breath. 

“Not bruises! How could…Charcoal!”

Molly meekly smiled at John when he stood by her side. “What’s going on?”

“He said wanted to study the abnormalities on the back of the victims neck. I told him that they weren’t bruises but a residue. I got samples for him, did the analyzing myself. But when he looked over the bodies, and into the microscope, he began,” she motioned to Sherlock, pacing, his hands flying in multiple directions, “He seems a bit off.”

“No, not off…well he could be” John shrugged, before adding, “Have you never seen him do his mind palace bit before?”

“His what?”

“Mind palace,” John answered, “It’s his way of storing information so he doesn’t forget it, unless he deletes it.” 

“Like the solar system in your blog.”

John nodded, watching Sherlock as he paced around. “Yeah, but most of the time when he’s thinking sometimes he either stares out in space, paces, or even-” 

“Shut up both of you!”

“Shouts,” he finished flatly. 

“I’ve seen a bit of staring,” murmured Molly as John walked over to the door and yanked it open. He pointed out the door, “Molly, how about we grab a coffee while he tries to put pieces together.” 

Molly’s long ponytail swung when she nodded. “Sounds good.”

They walked down the hallway to the coffee machine. John eagerly poured himself a cup. He grinned at Molly who was watching him. “My first cup of the day,” he explained weakly. “Our morning didn’t go as planned.”

John poured Molly a cup out of politeness so he wouldn’t take all the coffee for himself. He grabbed a third cup, pouring coffee in it too, and two spoons of sugar. 

“Sherlock doesn’t sleep too much on a case.”

Molly only nodded wordlessly. He took another sip before setting off to the morgue with Sherlock’s cup in hand. His pocket buzzed. He paused in mid-sip, pulling away from the liquid caffeine with a groan. John motioned toward Sherlock’s cup.

“Would you mind holding it for a second?”

“No, not at all” Molly replied with a smile. “It’s quite nice to get out the morgue and hold something that didn’t come out of a human body for once.” 

John blinked at her then smiled. “I would imagine.”

He fished his phone from his coat. Then groaned when read over the text message. A white lab coat brushed against his arm. “What’s the matter?”

John licked his lips. He stuffed his phone away. “Being called into the clinic, apparently it’s swamped today.”

He swallowed a few more sips of coffee before starting down the hallway. Molly called after him, “And the case? What about Sherlock?”

The thought of going to the clinic started him worrying all over again. Sherlock had been getting high for two months every time John had to work. He didn’t know if he would seek out another fix while he was gone. Turning back to Molly, John spoke. “Look, could you text me if Sherlock leaves? I’m thinking that he’ll be busy, but it’s Sherlock, so it’s hard to say.”

“Sure, but why? Doesn’t he usually text you?”

John sighed, his head pounded from the caffeine, which was not working fast enough. “He plans his fixes around my schedule. He’s been getting high while I’ve been working. I’m putting a stop to it.”

“Have you tried asking him?”

“Asking him what?

“To stop.”

John scoffed, and then gave Molly an apologetic smile. “I can’t ask Sherlock to stop doing something that his body and mind craves all the time. He uses cases as a substitute for the real thing. With addicts, it’s a lifetime battle. He’ll do what he wants, and I’ll try to be a good friend to help him past it.”

“And what if that’s not enough? Are you going to leave him if he doesn’t give it up?”

Just thinking about leaving Baker Street John’s heart began to pound. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “If he won’t let me help, then I just can’t sit by and watch him kill himself.” 

His eyes widened when he checked his watch. “I should,” he motioned down the hallway. “I need to…”

“No, go. I’ll explain to Sherlock where you went. And text you if he leaves.”

John was already halfway down the hallway. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t more than two hours later at the clinic when John’s phone buzzed again. Luckily, his last patient was waddling out the door. He inhaled sharply, staring at the text message on his phone. His hand shook lightly as he read over the message again and again. John muttered curses underneath his breath, swearing up and down that he would kill Sherlock Holmes if he found him.

‘Sherlock left. I don’t know where. Sorry. I was gone for five minutes. –Molly’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes missing, Molly knows, John gets surprised, and the game is ever on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope everyone is liking this story so far. Several more chapters to come! I want to say thank you for all the kudos/bookmarks/comments. Please feel free to leave more. Thank you my beta- englandwouldfalljohn(The Lady Amalthea).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 6

His fist slammed against the wooden desk, making his computer and other office trinkets rattle. His eyes still read over the words. Sherlock was gone. Disappeared. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s eluded from every one. However, this time, he was probably getting a fix in the slums somewhere. Damn! He had told Sherlock that he would help him. He was a bloody doctor! Helping people was what he did! But what good could he be if Sherlock never let him help? John’s frustration grew. He slammed his fist down again; a jar full of pens toppled over, scattering across his desk and onto the floor. Ignoring the mess, John stood, stomping around the small room. He pressed the call button on his mobile phone.

“Pick up the phone, Sherlock,” he whispered as it rang. “Come on, come on.”

He mentally counted the number of rings before the mobile clicked over to Sherlock’s voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail again. “Sherlock, you know it’s me, quit being a wanker and answer the call.”

His thumb jammed at the call button a third time. One. Two. Three. Four. Five rings. Sherlock’s voicemail clicked over again. “Answer your damn mobile!”

John scrolled through his contacts and hit the call button. It rang twice before Molly’s chipper voice answered. 

“Hello?”

“Did Sherlock say where he was going?”

“Oh. John,” Molly’s voice lost all vigor. John heard her sigh from the other side of the phone. “No, he didn’t say anything. I just went out to grab another cup of coffee, and he was gone.”

John paused in the small clinic room; he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Was he still using his mind palace when you came in? Did you say anything that might have triggered a-”

“No, he was looking over the yellow residue samples from the victims’ hands when I walked in. He asked where you went when I gave him the coffee, we talked a bit…well I mostly talked and he sort of responded, and afterwards I went out for five minutes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“What?”

“What did you talk about?” John repeated evenly. There was a squeak from the other side of the phone, followed by static. 

“I...well…I don’t…”Molly signed again.

“Molly?”

“Well, we talked about where you went...um…seeing things with eyes…and uh…choices.”

John tucked his mobile underneath his chin as he pulled his coat on. “That’s it? Just seeing things and choices?”

“And drugs,” Molly blurted out guiltily. John groaned. He leaned on the door, his head thumping on the wood, his eyes looking at the ceiling. “Molly, I asked you-”

“He already knew. You know there’s no sense in lying to him. He already knew that you asked me to ‘babysit’ him. His words, not mine.”

John covered the mouthpiece and cursed. He could hear his name being called through the other end of the receiver. John raised the mobile back to his ear with a sigh, “You’re right, there’s no sense in lying to him. So, text me if he suddenly appears all right? I have other calls to make.”

“Of course.” John could almost hear Molly nodding her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you did fine. Sherlock does what he wants. He always does what he wants, and despite being someone who thinks for a living, sometimes he just doesn’t. Sometimes he’s an idiot,” he snapped. He opened the door and walked down the hallway. He nodded at Sarah and mouthed ‘bye’ before continuing his angry rant into his phone, “That’s the problem. He can’t keep himself out of trouble. He bloody well seeks it out.”

“John?”

The tone of Molly’s voice made him pause before leaving the clinic through the double set of doors. It was a firmness that he didn’t normally hear from her. “Yeah?”

“Just keep your eyes open.”

He furrowed his brow. Confusion passed though his mind. John remained silent, not knowing what to say except, “I always do.”

There was a pause on the other side of the phone. It was quiet and John had thought he might have accidentally hung up on her. Then Molly sighed softly. “All right then. Don’t you have other calls to make?”

John nodded. “Yes, text me if Sherlock shows up.”

“Of course. Bye.”

Not bothering to say goodbye, John ended the call. His fingers quickly flew over the buttons, texting out a message to Lestrade, in hopes that Sherlock would be at New Scotland Yard to assist in the case as he predicted last night. He clicked send. 

John stared out the windows, looking at the grey sky for a moment. Then he started forward, marching out the clinic doors with focus. He hailed a cab as he found the next person in his phone to call. It was ringing when he climbed in. 

“Baker Street!” he yelled at the cabbie as he slammed the door shut. The cabbie grumbled at him for his rudeness, but the car rejoined the busy traffic.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Mycroft, have you seen Sherlock?”

“Not since yesterday morning.”

John gritted his teeth together. “I was called into the clinic.”

“I see. I will get my people on it.”

“Thanks.”

John ended the call. His eyes glanced out the window, watching London flash by. He wondered where the hell Sherlock was. What was he doing? What was he thinking? His mobile buzzed, and John sighed in disappointment. Lestrade hadn’t seen him either and he had been texting Sherlock all morning, trying to get ahold of him about the victims’ identities. John groaned aloud. “Sherlock, where the hell are you?”

When the cab stopped on Baker Street, John fished out his wallet. He gave the cabbie fare money with a remorseful half-smile. “Sorry. Bad day.” 

He walked away before he could hear whether the cabbie said something else. Swiftly, he unlocked the door and walked down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “Mrs. Hudson? Are you there?”

“John?” Mrs. Hudson remarked as she opened the door with a smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Sherlock on a case?”

His head bobbed on his shrugging shoulders. “I was called into the clinic. He was supposed to stay at the morgue. He’s not answering his mobile. He didn’t happen to come back, did he?”

“Well, no, I’ve-”

He stormed away from Mrs. Hudson, ignoring her spluttering questions from behind him as he flew back outside. John pulled his coat tighter. It had started to rain. He walked, rode in cabs for hours, looked in every spot he thought he might find Sherlock Holmes. Hoping that he wouldn’t find him dead. He huddled underneath an awning, soaking wet after his fruitless search. His phone vibrated in his pocket. John quickly answered it.

“Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft, tell me you have something.” John murmured through his chattering teeth.

“After reviewing over the surveillance, it seems my little brother has been at 221 B Baker Street alone for several hours.”

John ran.

His feet slapped on the pavement. Faces blurred together. He could barely hear the sounds of complaint as he slammed into strangers through the wind in his ears. He couldn’t feel the cold rain drops on his face. John burst through the black door, ran up the stairs, and pushed hurriedly into the flat. He stood panting, breathless, in the doorway. His eyes met Sherlock’s, who sat perched in his chair. John could hear his own heart beating, pounding in his head as he stepped further into the sitting room. 

“Couldn’t bother with a bloody call then?”

“I was thinking.”

“IS THAT ALL YOU DO? I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU FOR HOURS! AND-” John sank into his chair, feeling relieved that the worst hadn’t happened, angry because of Sherlock’s lack of consideration, and cold. “I thought-”

“John, there’s something on the table for you.”

He looked over his shoulder, into the kitchen. On the wooden table was a miniature wooden chest about the size of the pencil box. John turned back to Sherlock. “What is it?”

Sherlock shook his head. His eyes closed. “Please, just go look.”

John’s eyes trailed over Sherlock’s face. There was something that seemed breakable almost. Small. His anger vanished; all thoughts of being cold and wet disappeared. Any further protest died in his throat. “All right.”

Floorboards creaked as he crossed the flat and into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the table, glancing down at the small mahogany box sitting among the clutter. John glanced back to Sherlock. His eyes were still closed. He still seemed so fragile. Looking back to the box, John opened it. Then froze.

“There’s a certain spot to stand in the morgue that allows me to hear all conversations in the hallway.”

“So you-”

“Yes.”

John just stared silently at Sherlock’s supplies, resting on blue silk inside the box. 

Sherlock’s voice carried from the living room, barely more than a whisper. “I’ve spent the last few hours thinking, and now I’m asking. I won’t…I don’t want…do what you want with it. But there will be days that I-”

John nodded. His hands were balled at his sides. “Will be a complete arsehole. Not exactly news there, Sherlock,” finished John lightly. 

Sherlock’s soft laughter carried in the air. “Eloquent observation, John.”

“Thank you,” he chuckled. John closed the box and turned around. He drifted into the living room, pausing when he stood in front of Sherlock in his chair. “Your arms…”

“You can look if you like. I would do the same if I were the doctor and the addict was left alone for several hours with his drug of choice only a few feet away,” Sherlock stated. His clothed arms held up to John, willingly, in surrender, which took John a bit by surprise, considering it was only yesterday morning when they last fought about it. “I’ve been sitting here, staring at it. Considering it. Fixed between the temptation and choices to make to keep-”

Sherlock’s voice trailed off when John grabbed Sherlock’s right arm. He pushed up the black suit jacket, unbuckled the cuff at the pale wrist, and pulled the silver shirt away. Quickly, John began pouring over every vein, inspecting for discoloration, blemishes, anything that looked fresh. He moved to the other arm. Both arms were perfect, fitting, somehow, for the man in front him. After checking every vein, John tilted Sherlock’s face up towards him. Green eyes were wide as John studied them. They looked clear, calculating, and fully Sherlock. 

“I know there are other ways to inject, Sherlock. I’m not going to ask you to tell me where. I trust you, but what made you…” John’s question trailed off. The flat fell quiet.

‘Where’s John?’

‘He was called in.’

‘He asked you to babysit me then.’

‘No!’

‘Molly, don’t attempt to lie, you’re awful at it.’

‘He asked me to watch you, that’s all.’

‘Sherlock?’

‘Yes, Molly?’

‘He sees you.’ 

‘I know.’

‘Are you scared?’

“Opened eyes,” answered Sherlock finally. John stepped away and flopped back into his chair. He shook his head, furrowing his brow. “You know, if you were trying to sound cryptic as hell just then, you succeeded.”

Sherlock smiled at him, moving to stare out the window. “You see but you do not observe.”

“As you like reminding everyone,” John retorted. He shivered from the wet clothes, shrugged off his coat and stood. He walked across the flat, heading for his room upstairs. “I’m going to go get changed because for some reason I ran all over London in the rain.”

“You should invest in an umbrella.”

John pulled his jumper off over his head. “I’ll invest in a GPS tracker.” He paused. “Sherlock…”

“Yes, John?”

“When I call…answer your damn mobile from now on.”

It was at that moment that the mobile in question chirped, echoing through the flat. “Impeccable timing, John.”

John paused on the stairs to call back, “It’s probably Lestrade. He has been trying to get ahold of you. He found positive ID for the victims!”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO? FIVE MINUTES!”

“YOU WOULD’VE KNOWN IF YOU CHECKED YOUR MOBILE!”

“FOUR MINUTES!”

John quickly changed into a blue jumper and dry trousers. Sherlock had his coat waiting. They ventured out of the flat and into a cab on their way to New Scotland Yard. In comfortable silence, Sherlock’s phone chimed, John’s buzzed in his pocket. They shared a look before checking their phones. John grinned when Sherlock groaned at his phone, hostilely pressing buttons before tucking it away, his head turning to look out the window. 

“Mycroft too then?” asked John, knowing what the answer was because there was only one person who dragged that kind of response from Sherlock. 

Sherlock whipped around, a flicker of shock crossed over his face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Why did my brother text you?”

John grinned. “He was thanking me. Apparently I was still on the phone with him when I ran back to the flat to find you.”

“He overheard everything.”

“Afraid so.”

“I think I will send him a cake.”

“What? Do you even know how to make a cake?” John asked in confusion.

“Of course I do, but I was going to have Mrs. Hudson do it.” 

His eyes met Sherlock’s as the taller man began to grin. John knew that grin; it was the one that he used when he was plotting something. The same one he’d had when he stole an ashtray. When he refused to wear trousers in Buckingham Palace. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing.”

“Yet,” John added. They shared another glance before bursting out into laughter. When the cab pulled up to New Scotland Yard, John was wiping the tears from his eyes. He paid the cabbie and followed after Sherlock, who had disappeared inside. John greeted several officers before finding Sherlock standing with Lestrade. He joined them, catching the conversation as the inspector spoke.

“Their landlord reported her missing. Brunette victim, Laura Pruit. Through pictures on her social media, we determined the second victim to be Merry Mollet. Both students were at the university; we are getting a warrant for their schedules. They shared a flat nearby, were late on the rent. We looked over the flat while you were-”

“Busy,” stated Sherlock. John shrugged when the inspector paused, glancing between the two of them. 

“I was at the clinic, he was at the morgue,” John explained quickly.

“Right then, well there was no sign of struggle, or kidnapping at the flat, which makes sense because they weren’t killed there. The door was locked until the landlord checked in on them. So, out of leads there. What did you notice about forensics, Sherlock? I need something, anything.”

“It wasn’t bruising on their necks, but charcoal residue. There is a small possibility that it transferred from the killer to the victims somehow, but there were no signs of struggle. The blood found on the bricks and pavement is a match to both victims. Unfortunately, the leaf found at the crime scene is still being tested. Other than that, I’m uncertain and I don’t like being uncertain. Molly found standard yellow paint on the victims that could be found at any hardware store, the paint most likely stained their dominant hand-” His head jerked towards Lestrade. 

“What color is their apartment?”

The inspector shook his head, pausing, “I…don’t…I wasn’t paying attention. How important is the color of the walls?”

“Almost as important as the color of the suitcase,” John muttered lowly. 

The inspector glared at him. The consulting detective turned his head and smirked.

“Sorry,” John offered. 

Sherlock’s smirk disappeared. “Did someone here at least get pictures? Or am I going to have to break in just to get an answer?”

“I didn’t hear that,” mumbled Lestrade. He tossed a file at John, who caught it easily. Sherlock hovered over his shoulder as they flicked through it. Photographs. Sherlock cursed softly. “Blue.”

The consulting detective sat down, his fingers fixed under his chin for a moment before suddenly springing back to his feet. He bolted out Lestrade’s office and down the hallway. John shared a look with the inspector, who sighed. 

“If he discovers another crime scene, or solves the case, call me.”

John grinned. “Someone has too.”

He trailed after Sherlock at a run. He caught up just as Sherlock hailed a cab. “Sherlock!”

“Come on, John.”

Not needing to be asked twice, John climbed into the cab. He glanced over at Sherlock as London trickled by them. “Merry Mollet?” John questioned in a whisper. “Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.”

John sighed. “So, where are we going?”

“To the university. I know the Dean- owes me a favor. Lestrade and the rest of the officers may have to wait for paperwork, but I don’t. We’ll look over their schedules faster.”

“You’re not above the law, Sherlock.”

“No. I just have better connections.”

Snorting, John retorted. “You sound just like Mycroft.”

Sherlock glared at him, insult twisting his face into a frown. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

John’s apology was undercut by his laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working the case with flirting, jealously, and a sudden realization in the mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: There's not much to say here except thank you for all who are leaving comments/kudos/and bookmarking this fic. Season 4 is almost here, I'm excited to know that my heart is probably going to get ripped out. Thank you to my beta, who makes everything better- 'englandwouldfalljohn (TheLadyAmalthea).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 7

The corridors were empty by the time they had paid the cabbie and ventured into the main building. University students rode up on the lift with them before exiting the elevator on the third floor at a run. John didn’t question to where they were heading, knowing all full well that Sherlock probably knew where to go. The music in the lift continued to play until the doors opened on fourth floor, revealing an empty corridor painted dull grey, lined with office doors. 

Potted plants hovered in the corners; squeezed in the middle of the foliage were plastic chairs lined in a row. Faint sunlight trickled though the large windows, clashing with the bright fluorescent lights overhead. Their footsteps echoed noisily through the quiet atmosphere. Sherlock stopped abruptly before one of the doors. Written in gold calligraphy over textured glass was ‘Office 129’, below which it was ‘Dean of Education’. A shadow darted across the other side of the window. John caught Sherlock’s sleeve before he could push open the dark wooden door.

“There’s someone in there,” John whispered, motioning at the door, the muffled sounds of someone talking on the other side. 

“Her secretary. Stay here.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve again, halting the taller man. “What are you going to do? Burst in there, making demands? Deduct the secretary until she slaps you then storms out? Propose again?” John remarked darkly. There was an unsettling twist in his stomach as he recalled that particular moment in their lives.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and whispered, “As you know, proposing to Janine was necessary to get through his security, and as you probably recall, the miscalculation in that plan didn’t end too well for me. Now, it is hardly necessary, and would do more damage in harassment, and attracting security than finding the schedules to make progress in this case. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “I don’t have the ring anymore. I gave it to Mrs. Hudson.”

“You gave Mrs. Hudson the engagement ring?” John asked in disbelief.

“Well, what was I supposed to do with it?”

“Return it back to the shop, like any logical person would.”

Sherlock shrugged, “Too late now, Mrs. Hudson lost it in a card game last week. She has been showering us in extra biscuits because of it. Stay here and preferably out of sight.”

Before he could protest, Sherlock burst through the door, just as John predicted he would. He leaned against the wall next to the door, trying to hear pinpoints of the low conversation, waiting for a shout, a curse, or even a slap. Nothing came; instead, there was a familiar sound of hasty footsteps and rustling fabric. Sherlock came out of the office. The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped away from the glass. John pushed himself from the wall. 

“So?”

“On maternity leave until the end of the month,” answered Sherlock. Grey eyes trailed up and down his John’s body. “Take off your jumper.”

John immediately folded his arms over his chest. “What? Why?”

“Because it ages you by five years and I need you to be the diversion.”

He yelped as Sherlock pounced at him. Pale hands grabbed at the bottom of his jumper, elegant fingers folding within the wool, pulling it upward, and exposing the white button down shirt that John was wearing underneath. He twisted out of Sherlock’s reach. He straightened out his clothes, his cheeks burning red. 

“Usually I get dinner first.”

Sherlock stepped into his personal space again, using his height as means to intimidate him. John met his eyes, unthreatened, knowing the last time they had a tussle like this, it was Sherlock pinned to the pavement by his shorter frame and bleeding from the small cut on the cheek made by his fist.

“You had dinner last night.”

“Drinks then.”

“You had wine.”

John shook his head, his voice lowered to a whisper when a nameless person walked by on his mobile. “You are not getting me out of my clothes.”

“It’s just your jumper for now, I doubt that it will progress any further than that. The secretary has a history of attraction for older men, but not old enough to seem like their father. I have already been seen, which leaves you. I’m normally not adverse to your wardrobe but ridding you of it is necessary to further the case.”

John glared at Sherlock for a few more seconds, and then sighed. “Fine. But turn around.”

Sherlock fixed him with a scowl before turning around. His low voice carried over his shoulder. “I’m not asking you to disrobe down to your pants, John. Unbutton your collar while you’re at it.”

John yanked his blue wooly jumper over his head and tossed it at the back of Sherlock’s head. His fingers made quick work at the top two buttons of his shirt. “Yet, you mean. I’ve done a lot for you with cases but next time, you strip. You can turn around now.”

His heart drummed as Sherlock’s eyes locked over him with the same kind of heated stare that he had seen before, the one that was took in every detail, before Sherlock looked away. “Good.”

“So-”

The rest of his question never escaped his lips. John didn’t register Sherlock’s fist until it connected to his jaw and he was on the floor. 

“What the hell?” he groaned out, sitting up from the floor, and massaging the sore spot with his hand. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

John blinked at the unknown voice as an unfamiliar face appeared beside him. All he saw was bright blue hair and matching eyes. 

“Cookie monster?”

The young man threw his head back and laughed. “I’ll forgive you since I found you unconscious on the floor.”

John smiled. “I wouldn’t say unconscious. I did complain about it.”

“Peter,” offered the man, along with his hand. John took it.

“John.”

He climbed to his feet and Peter hovered by his side, undoubtedly thinking that John was going to fall down. John snorted and rubbed the sore spot again.

“I’m fine. I just…ran into a door. A rather large door, didn’t see it coming actually,” John feigned as he mentally promised to deck Sherlock the next time he saw him. 

That remark earned a small chuckle from Peter. “Well, there’s lots of those around here,” he motioned to the offices around them. “If you’re okay, I should be heading inside…”

His hand gestured to ‘Office 129’ and the open doorway. John bit his lip, wishing that he would’ve known the plan. He hadn’t heard or seen Sherlock go in yet but knowing him, he was already in there, looking for the information they needed as soon as Peter had left the office. And as Sherlock put it, he was the diversion. 

John cleared his throat, stepped towards Peter and put on his most charming smile- well, one that he hoped was charming, it seemed to work for some women in the pub sometimes, as he lied. “Actually, I think I’m lost…it’s my first time on campus, but there’s something wrong with my schedule. I don’t know how to get that fixed.” The lie had come surprisingly quickly.

Peter brightened. John saw his blue eyes roam over him just as Sherlock’s did. Luckily, John didn’t flush under the gaze, not like he had with that overgrown idiot. Thank Christ for that. Instead, it was Peter who seemed to flush under his attention. It was then that he realized how exactly he was the diversion and why Sherlock made him take off his jumper. 

“What’s your last name? Maybe I can help, sometimes I do registrations for T-Z.”

Looking over Peter’s face, it was difficult to see if someone like him would read his blog. If Sherlock weren’t busy snatching illegal papers, then maybe he would have been able to tell. He didn’t want to give out his last name. Watson seemed more distinguishing than his rather average first name. Smith was the standard last name that showed he wasn’t trying not hard enough to hide whatever he was doing.

“Holmes,” he murmured, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t have heard it.

“Holmes? Isn’t that the name of that genius detective that makes the papers, solving all those ridiculous crimes?”

John bit back a grin. “I wouldn’t know. I think he’s a complete idiot.”

His mobile suddenly buzzed in his pocket, vibrating loudly in the silent corridor. John motioned to his trousers. “Do you mind?”

Peter shook his head. Blushing red again. “No, go ahead.”

‘You can stop now. I have the schedules. – SH’

He typed out a quick message, asking where Sherlock was. The mobile buzzed in his hand again. John looked up to Peter. “I can’t stay actually…I’m being called to work.”

There was a noticeable fall in Peter’s face before he suddenly reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pen. He snatched up John’s hand. Numbers bled over the top, covering his skin in messy blue scrawl. Peter stepped away. “I forgot my mobile at my flat today. It would be nice to see a text from you, John Holmes, when I get home. Maybe we could get a drink.”

His heart definitely didn’t skip a beat from hearing Sherlock’s last name attached to his. “Yeah…maybe…work can be pretty demanding.”

A harsh ring blared from his pocket. John jumped, “I should get going.”

“You weren’t joking.”

“You have no idea,” smiled John as he nodded in farewell. He started down the corridor and checked his phone. Instead of going after the lift, he pushed open the door leading into the stairs. The grey metal banged loudly when it closed behind him. Then John was greeted with wooly blue vision as his jumper collided with his face before falling into his arms. 

Sherlock’s voice echoed. “Took your time with Peter.”

“It would’ve gone faster if you would’ve told me to flirt with him,” John countered back in annoyance. He yanked his jumper back over his head, quickly fixing the buttons on his collar. “You didn’t have to punch me.”

“It required a genuine response and concern, which required lying and you’re terrible at it,” stated Sherlock as he started descended the stairs. “You played your part as a diversion wonderfully, I see, he gave you his mobile number.”

His eyes flickered down to the scribble on his left hand, ignoring the acceleration in his heart rate from the biting undertones in Sherlock’s voice. John followed him down the stairs. Their footsteps clopped in the echoing cavern, Sherlock’s coattails, rustling as they went. “You knew he would. That’s why you made me take off my jumper.”

“I had a suspicion. You’re handsome and quite intelligent. He didn’t react when I first entered the room.”

John laughed. “That would be a first. How’d you know that he would like me?”

“His underwear.” 

Sherlock pushed open the metal door leading into the first floor. John ducked as he went underneath his arm. “How is it that you remember men’s underwear but not the solar system?”

“Irrelevant. I’ve told you that I have-“

“No need for useless information,” John finished lamely, hearing it all before. They turned down the hallway. Voices drifted from the classrooms. “So what did you find?”

“Both victims were first years taking general education courses. We’ll follow their schedules and investigate their classrooms.”

“And if we don’t find anything?” asked John. Then there was a familiar twist in his abdomen. John covered it with his hands. The growling of his stomach drowned out Sherlock’s reply. Green-grey eyes narrowed at him.

“You didn’t eat this morning.”

John shook his head. “No, I didn’t get a chance at the flat, the clinic was busy, and I spent most of my afternoon searching for you.”

“There is a cafeteria on this floor just up ahead. You will grab something to eat while I think.”

John inhaled deeply, just noticing the scent of food in the air. He hadn’t been aware of it before. “Think about what?”

True to Sherlock’s word, they entered into the cafeteria. They fell into cue with other students grabbing their own food as well. Sherlock hovered over John’s shoulder and answered. “The serial killer, John.”

John glanced around them, smiling apologetically at the group of students, who turned to look back, whispering nervously to each other. 

“You could say that a bit louder, Sherlock. I don’t think everyone heard you,” John remarked as he grabbed a pack of crisps, an apple, and a bottle of water. 

“And you’re completely underestimating the possibility of one because you don’t wish to cause panic.”

John retrieved his wallet from his trousers, swiping his card through the machine. He pushed in his pin as he replied, “I’m not doubting the possibility of one, but yes, I wish avoid panic. There are some things that you don’t say in public, and ‘serial killer’ is one of them.”

He snatched up the receipt, shoving it and his wallet into his trouser pocket, then plucked up a free newspaper from the stand before heading to a small table away from the general population. He sat down with a sigh, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face as the taller man sat across from him. Green-grey stared out into the cafeteria, paying no heed to John, allowing him to stare. 

There were several thoughts going through John’s mind, from the dream starring Sherlock, to flirting with a man and having no qualms about it. Peter was a decent looking bloke, despite the bright blue hair. But none of his flirtations did anything to John, whereas, if Sherlock even turned his head in a particular way at him, it made his heart jump. As it had upstairs, when they were talking about his clothes and having dinner first. Sherlock had called him handsome, intelligent, and Christ! He straightened in the chair in realization; a flush bloomed across his face. He stared dumbfounded at Sherlock with wide eyes. He was attracted Sherlock, had been for years. Those were the feelings that he had buried. The feelings that crept out during the stag night and every other time they had been alone. “Shite.” 

“Did you say something, John?”

John jumped as he opened the bottled water, splattering over the newspaper, his hands, and trousers. His eyes flickered between Sherlock, who had his hands fixed underneath his chin, his eyes closed in his usual thinking pose, and the water all over the place. 

“What? No, nothing. Damn! The water is everywhere, the paper is smearing.”

“OH!”

Sherlock jumped from his chair and around the table. Hands grabbed John’s, long fingers trailed up his palm, smearing the ink across both of their hands. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

It seemed his question went unnoticed as Sherlock muttered lowly. “The fingertips were tilted up, not down, not made by their own hands, or the killer’s if grabbed from behind. It would have to be…oh, obvious!” 

Sherlock leaned over him, hands shot out, fixing fingertips on the back of John’s neck, tickling at the small hairs. The touch sent shivers down John’s spine as Sherlock continued to speak. “They lived together, shared the same lipstick- not friends, but lovers. They were-”

The touch disappeared faster than it happened as John watched the taller man stalk out of the cafeteria. John bit into his apple once before tossing it in a nearby bin, leaving every thing else behind, mentally apologizing to whoever had to clean up his mess. He ran after Sherlock down the corridor. 

“What’s going on?”

“What is a date? Your definition of a date.”

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“Simplify it.”

John matched Sherlock’s stride as he answered. “Spending time together.”

“Good, you’re following,” grinned Sherlock. His grey-green eyes gleamed happily as he continued, “Merry Mollet and Laura Pruit have one course in common, which means they met in the classroom. There’s a likelihood that our serial killer could have been there, stalking them from the very beginning and finishing it in the alleyway.”

“But what does all of these have to do with smears?”

“It’s a medium, they share an art course together. The paint, charcoal-”

They paused in the corridor. Abstract paintings with different shades of yellow decorated on one side of the wall, brightening the grey. “Well, that confirms your theory,” John muttered. “The yellow paint stained their hands.”

“Yes, at the moment. Now, how to get in the classroom without scaring our suspect,” Sherlock muttered lowly, pacing back and forth. 

John pointed to a flier next to a darkened door. “Well, they’re looking for modeling volunteers tonight. Could sit there and deduce everyone in the classroom at once,” he mentioned lightly as a joke. Sherlock’s chin rested on John’s shoulder. A grin bloomed across the detective face. 

“That will work.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's end of the newly declared deal is here, John's red-hot embarrassment, and the writer's favorite chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter inspired me to write this whole story out. I don't know why- maybe not enough art and Sherlock fanfiction out there? Anyways, please leave kudos/bookmarks/comments. I always like those! This chapter is beta-ed by englandwouldfalljohn(TheLadyAmalthea) who does awesome work with these chapters and her own stories!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 8

“This is one of the maddest things that you’ve ever done for a case, Sherlock,” stated John. His eyes were shut, making it difficult to rant on to Sherlock when he couldn’t see him. “Almost rates up with you stealing a double-decker.”

“Hardly, and this was your idea. Now, hold your arms out. I need someplace to rest my clothes.”

John shook his head and held his arms out, waiting. His eyes were clamped shut to give Sherlock privacy as he heard rustling sounds from somewhere in the professor’s office. From the other side of the office door, he could hear student chatter. “That was a joke, you know. I didn’t expect you to actually go through with it.”

He recalled Sherlock’s eagerness, the madness that he gets when a case is close to being solved, as the taller man had yanked the flier from the wall and dialed the mobile number before John could even get a reasonable word in. It was only when the professor arrived and explained the lesson plan for tonight that John really, really wished he‘d kept his mouth shut. Or at least, let Sherlock come to this plan himself. Or better yet, a different one. He would be more inclined to climb through a window at this point or hide in the bins, than sit through the impending discomfort that this evening was certain to bring.

“Yes, but your witticism seemed plausible for all purposes of this case. I will be able to deduce everyone in the classroom, and therefore find our suspect. The circumstances are irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant,” John mocked lowly. Something heavy was draped in his waiting arms. Sherlock’s coat, John judged from the weight of it. Something lighter fell over his shoulder, perhaps Sherlock’s scarf. John continued, “ I wouldn’t say that’s irrelevant; you’re going to stark naked in front of at least twenty people, Sherlock. This is nude modeling, not someone drawing your portrait, or a bowl of fruit. Nude? Naked? Mean anything to you?”

“No. I’ve been informed that I have remarkable cheekbones.”

He could almost hear the grin in Sherlock’s voice. John couldn’t contain a small chuckle of his own. “Yeah, and they’ll probably recognize you from them. I can see it now, ‘Live Nudes of Famous Detective’ in the newspapers. Maybe they’ll make the best drawing of you a centerfold. It will be a media circus.”

“I’m fairly confident that they’ll be looking elsewhere.”

The sound of zipper teeth echoed through the quiet room. John snorted, as the clothing in his arms grew heavier. “That didn’t make you sound conceited,” he commented sarcastically before adopting a serious tone. “I’m not joking anymore, Sherlock. What if this goes to the papers?”

“Worst things have been said. You can open your eyes now.”

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock in a dark blue robe, not any different than if they were back at the flat. His toes wiggled against the brown-carpeted floor. Sherlock had a thoughtful look on his face. The robe leveled at the top of Sherlock’s knees and was knotted off in his middle, the main difference from the state that Sherlock usually wore it back home. From this angle, John could pretend that Sherlock was wearing clothes. If only he could get over the fact that twenty other people were going to see all of his flatmate’s pale skin exposed. John swallowed, not enjoying that feeling whatsoever, especially after his sudden epiphany that he was, himself, attracted to Sherlock.

“How do you know it’s not the professor?” he asked, hoping that it would be that easy to avoid this.

“Would I be in this cheap robe if I had determined that?”

“No,” John answered. His eyes flickered to the other light source in the room minus the strip of yellow coming from underneath the doorway. “You hacked into the professor’s computer?”

“Of course.”

“When? I though you were getting undressed.”

“I can’t do both?” Sherlock questioned, his eyebrow arched at John. He only shook his head, grinning a little. “So, nothing then?” 

“Completely ordinary.”

John licked his lips, and then sighed, placing Sherlock’s clothes on the small black chair tucked away in the corner. “You can still back out of this. I’ll go up there instead, and you can roam about the classroom.”

“Earlier today you viciously protested having to remove your jumper. I don’t want to fathom what would happen if you were required to take off all your clothing. I have reason to believe that you could start foaming at the mouth,” Sherlock grinned. “You did say that it was my turn to ‘strip’ for a case.”

“I didn’t mean all of your clothes,” John muttered exasperatedly, his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, and he repeated. “People are going to see you naked.”

“Yes, you keep repeating that. You will too.”

John’s eyes widened, and he blinked wildly. “What? Why?”

“You,” Sherlock reiterated in annoyance, leaning against the wooden desk, flashing John a spectacular amount of pale thigh in the dim room. “Have to be in there to catch the suspect; you’ll be posing as one of the students.”

John scoffed in disbelief, dragging his eyes from the exposed skin, back to Sherlock’s gray pair of eyes. “You mean, I’ll have to sit there and ‘draw’ you until you give the signal for me to tackle someone?”

“Obviously.”

“You don’t fancy to tackle the killer yourself?”

“John.” 

“Sherlock, I-”

There was a small knock on the door, stopping John’s protests that he wouldn’t be able to do this. He could hardly face Sherlock now without drooling on the carpet. How was he supposed to keep a level head out there? The noisy chatter from the other side made his stomach twist with familiar, darkened emotion. 

“Yes?” Sherlock answered towards the door. John was thankful for that. He couldn’t manage speaking at the moment, now that knew what he was feeling. 

Jealously. 

His hands balled at his side. A blush crossed his face. He wasn’t twelve years old anymore; he should be able to control his emotions when dealing with attractive people, especially with Sherlock. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t his in that way…only his best friend, flatmate, and sometimes a rather infuriating overgrown man-child that relegated into his care so he didn’t do anything stupid. He didn’t have any claim to the other man. Or to the pale skin that he’d rather see lying across his bed for the first time than in a classroom. But he had no right to it. No right to think of it. His life was easier when he ignored his attraction or was blissfully unaware of it. 

‘Married to his work’ and countless other reminders that Sherlock found human attachment idiotic - John knew that feeling like this was pointless. Sherlock’s body was nothing to him but means of transport for his rather large intellect. Everything else didn’t matter. Eating. Drinking. Feelings, knowing the way Sherlock cursed that word venomously. John exhaled slowly, recalling the brush of light fingertips, almost gentle, over the plethora of scars on his ruined shoulder this morning, and the sound of Sherlock’s voice when…they had almost…it had to mean something. Maybe.

“We are all set up out here,” came the professor’s voice from the other side.

“We’ll be out in a moment,” stated Sherlock. “John.”

He looked up, unaware that his eyes had fallen to the floor. “Yeah?”

The robe swished lightly when Sherlock crossed the room. The dark curls brushing over the pale forehead mesmerized John, and gray eyes staring down at him, studying him. Sherlock’s mouth was fixed in a thin line. 

“Seeing another man naked will not affect your sexual orientation.”

John swallowed heavily, his eyes switched between Sherlock’s eyes and to his mouth before meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “I’m a doctor, been in the army, Sherlock. I’ve seen naked men before,” he whispered. 

“Yes, I know, which draws me to the conclusion that it’s something about this,” Sherlock motioned down his body, and his eyes narrowed at John. “That’s upsetting you.”

‘Upsetting’ wasn’t the word that John would use to describe this moment. He was glad that Sherlock couldn’t see every deduction on his face or else he would’ve said more. It would have been easier if he had seen it. The want. The jealously. The pining. Sherlock would let him down as he did before. He could go back to The Work without feeling like something was building. That everything that they’ve been through together should remain at a standstill because Sherlock doesn’t do emotions, feelings, and sentiment. He tore his eyes away from Sherlock. A humorless laugh escaped through his lips. “You always miss something.”

“Do I?”

Warm hands cupped his cheeks, fixing over his jaw, over his pulse. John inhaled sharply. He met Sherlock’s eyes again as the taller man spoke. “Dilated eyes, rapid pulse, increased breathing, slight perspiration. You are attracted to me.”

John licked his lips. His throat was dry. “Most of the people who meet you are and you know it,” he rasped, not bothering to deny it, or lie. Sherlock would know immediately. He added. “At least until you open your mouth and insult them.”

“Observe them,” Sherlock corrected with a whisper. His dark curls drifted from his forehead as he leaned down, his face growing closer to John’s, his voice huskily. “You are fascinating, John Watson.”

Sherlock’s words did something to him, warmed his chest. This moment was the same as when they were alone in the flat. John watched as thoughts flurried over Sherlock’s surprisingly open face. Indecision. Hesitance. Resolution. They were so close; it made John’s heart wild. He licked his lips. Sherlock’s hands were on him, warm, inviting. Fingertips caressed his pulse. He held the cheap robe within his fingertips at Sherlock’s elbows. All he had to do was rise and capture. 

But he didn’t.

John stepped away and cleared his throat. “Right…um…let’s go find the serial killer.”

Pale hands dropped from his face. In seconds, Sherlock’s face closed off, locking John away from the person underneath. Sherlock stepped away, his back towards John. His voice was sharp when he spoke. “Give me a moment.”

He nodded sharply and walked out the door into the noisy classroom. The door clinked softly behind him. His eyes landed on an empty chair and canvas in back. He sat down, not making eye contact with the student in a baseball cap next to him.

The class fell silent as Sherlock entered into the classroom and stood on a small platform. John smirked lightly at the state of awe that washed over the students as the professor spoke with Sherlock. Then the robe slipped away. John swallowed, knowing that his face dropped, blushed, and his heart hammered. Everything about Sherlock was a long slender line, not soft flesh like a woman’s body, but muscular planes underneath the pale skin from chasing criminals that should be admired, felt, touched. John knew that he would look like this just from the barest of glances years ago when the sheet fell to reveal a powerful back. The chest had to be symmetrical, now he could say it was, minus the light pink scar. Hipbones that jutted outwards, startling sharp, framing lower thicker darkened curls. John turned his head away, his face burning. 

Christ, he should’ve done it. Kissed him. 

His hands were shaking as he picked up the useless piece of charcoal. He hopelessly glanced around the room, finding other students going fast to work on their sketches, seemingly unaffected of the gorgeous man. Even his neighbor with the awful baseball cap was going to quick work, humming a catchy tune under his breath. John couldn’t focus on anything but the intensive eyes staring among the classroom. If he had…done it… his friendship with Sherlock would become complicated. His attraction would affect his feelings of friendship, which was something that John had worked hard to rebuild again after everything. This was his best friend. His best man. The man who fixed him, who broke him, then fixed him again.

There was a level of romanticism that John knew was there, something that he refused to say aloud to Ella after Sherlock’s…fall. Attraction he could deal with. Friendship, John could manage easily; but to feel ‘that’ again, it was dangerous. Unfortunately, he was attracted to dangerous, according to everyone but him. And he shouldn’t be. It could break him permanently. Sherlock had fixed him; Mary had fixed him once. Who would be there for him when he was cast aside again, left behind again? His gun, like before?

Suddenly, narrowed grey-blue eyes met his; almost seeming like Sherlock knew what he was thinking from the distance across the room. He didn’t want to have this discussion right now. He swallowed everything that he was feeling and focused. The Work. The case. John arched an eyebrow in his direction, hoping that he would be able to answer the wordless question. ‘Anything yet?’

Sherlock’s head shook slightly. John sighed. Nothing. No leads or at least no serial killer here. He leaned back in his chair, wondering how long until this course was over and they could return to the flat. John tucked the piece of charcoal on the easel, grimacing at the stain on his fingertips. 

There was a distinctive chirp, one that made John’s eyes unite to Sherlock’s, recognition on both of their faces; Sherlock’s mobile in the office. John stood and his mobile buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Complaints sounded through the classroom as Sherlock bolted to his feet. John definitely didn’t watch his pale backside disappear into the office.

John slammed the door closed behind him. His eyes found the floor the second he realized that Sherlock had forgotten the robe in the classroom and he stood in the middle of the office with only mobile in his hand, fingers running wild over the small buttons. 

“What is it?”

“Lestrade. Another crime scene.”

He glanced up in surprise. “Another one? Does he think that’s it’s…” John frowned and shook his head. He weakly motioned to Sherlock’s clothes on the chair. 

“Please put your clothes back on. I…can’t…have this conversation with you naked.” 

“I hadn’t noticed.”

John laughed because he knew that it was a lie. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t noticed, but he did, and couldn’t function properly without some kind of barrier. He turned around, giving Sherlock privacy to dress. He could hear the rustling of clothing from behind him. “When are we going?”

Sherlock brushed past him, tugging his scarf into place, looking as pristine as usual when he opened the office door. John’s jaw dropped again. “How did you even do that? Get dressed so fast?”

“Crime scene, John.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he remarked back with a half grin, still wondering how Sherlock did it. How Sherlock continued to be remarkable in so many ways. John followed him out of the office and into classroom, passing the grumbling students who were still sketching. He recognized the outlines of Sherlock’s body on many canvases, showing talent and likeness. He glanced at his empty chair and the canvas that he had neglected to use, on which it seemed someone else had drawn something instead. From the distance it looked like a rough sketch of a chair but it didn’t really matter anyway, and that’s all he could gather from it before he chasing after Sherlock to keep up with his pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So what did you guys think? Please leave a comment/bookmark and/or kudos!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another crime scene! Which stirs up emotions for John. Sherlock figures something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, so chapter nine. I haven't seen the new season, so this story is going to be a light-hearted thing. Thank you for all the comments/bookmarks/kudos. This chapter is beta-ed by englandwouldfalljohn(TheLadyAmalthea) who cleans this story up. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 9

Flashing red and blue lights and police were beacons to the scene in the setting sunlight. Crowds of people and reporters hugged the police tape. John paid the cabbie as they stopped at the end of the street. His jaw hit the ground when he climbed out, in awe of the building structures usually reserved for the upper class Londoners. Small elephant topiaries were planted either side of the white buildings. Trees were manicured in uniform. Decorative wrought iron streetlights flickered. The orange lights bathed the pavement making the marble sparkle. Even the air carried a sense of wealth and privilege never bestowed upon for people on a small pension like him. 

John followed Sherlock as he stalked towards the scene in his recognizable coat; as they approached, reporters quickly swarmed, burying them in warm bodies and biting jabs. John clenched his jaw, stepping in front of Sherlock as questions flew at them, attacking them with the months-old rumors about Janine and her new engagement. He felt Sherlock at his back when they finally navigated out of the vultures. The taller man held up the tape while Lestrade waved them through, pausing during his questioning of a witness. John ducked underneath, glad to get onto crime scene.

The DI walked towards them, rubbing a hand over his face. “What took the two you so long?”

“We were across town,” answered John, ignoring Sherlock’s glare as he continued to talk to Lestrade, “at Roland Kerr College, following a lead. What’s with the cameras?”

“Please tell me you have something,” sighed the Inspector. 

“It was a dead end,” stated Sherlock flatly. John easily picked up the tone of disappointment. Sherlock didn’t enjoy being wrong or running on out of leads at alarming rates. 

“Do I want to know what the two of you did to find out? Was it legal?”

John shrugged. “I flirted. Sherlock went undercover. Nothing too illegal, we didn’t break in this time,” he replied with a snort and a half-grin. He caught the taller detective rolling his eyes, turning his head to hide a smirk of his own. Sherlock’s features were schooled when he turned back to the DI. 

“The previous two victims had shared one course in common on their college schedules. I determined that they met there, and then kindled their romantic relationship. There was reason to believe that the killer had had also attended the same course and started stalking them from there.”

“And nothing?”

“Correct. The killer was not in the classroom.”

“Is it the same killer then?” John asked, looking between Sherlock and Lestrade. “Could it just be another murderer, a different one?”

Then he grimaced. Another murderer? Another person, John meant. Hating that he sounded cold. These were people’s lives. It was just that he hoped that it would be a simple one, not increasing the probability of a serial killer was roaming about. Something easily solved so they could get back their case.

Lestrade’s face was grim, sinking John’s hope as the DI replied, “Stabbed in heart like the other two. I may not look it, but I sometimes do listen when Sherlock says something.”

The three men turned to look at a crying man, sitting on the back of an ambulance, covered in a shock blanket. No words needed to be said. They were wrong about finding the killer at the College. If they had taken a different lead, then maybe the victim would still be alive. Yet, the killer wasn’t caught, and had taken another life, as Sherlock had predicted at the other crime scene. A serial killer, trying to perfect killing. John felt a jolt of devastation as he watched the man cry into the arms of another officer. His bloodied hands pulled, using them as an anchor as he struggled to his feet before collapsing on the ground. 

John’s fists trembled by his sides. His bad knee buzzing as he shifted footing, he listened as Lestrade flipped through his notebook, “Kyle Izard, the boyfriend of six years. He found the victim, Oliver Martin, the famous pants model after his shift at The Landmark. I have officers confirming his story now.”

John sighed. “Well, that explains the vultures then.”

“He didn’t do it.”

John whirled towards Sherlock, studying his profile. Sherlock’s eyes studied the boyfriend. The DI sighed and fixed Sherlock with a look. “How’d know?”

“You should have that question on recording Lestrade, so you don’t waste precious effort to keep repeating it,” said Sherlock. “It’s obvious that they were married.”

John glanced at Lestrade, seeing if he was following as well. Confusion also mirrored on the DI’s face. 

“He said boyfriend.”

“Sherlock…you’re doing that face again,” John muttered lowly, pinching the bridge of his nose, knowing that Sherlock would understand that pointing out ‘his annoying face’ meant that no one could comprehend him.

The detective sighed dramatically, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it probably was. “Only two reasons why couples do not wear their rings, marital disputes or cheating. There’s an indention on his finger, the ring has been recently removed. He told you boyfriend, instead of husband; I want to know why.”

“Well, do you want to look over the crime scene first or traumatize the boyfriend first?”

“Husband.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s correction. The idiot always needed the last word. 

“Crime scene then,” he declared, earning a surprised look from the other two men. John nodded at the boyfriend, “It seems like he needs some time, so where?”

“On sixth, 2nd flat,” answered Lestrade. “I’ll call up. Try not to piss anyone off, everyone’s on edge.”

“Who is handling it?” asked Sherlock. 

“Donovan,” replied Lestrade into the radio, turning away from them. Radio static blurred out Donovan’s voice as Lestrade continued. “John and Sherlock are coming.”

John shared a pained look with Sherlock before they entered into the block of flats through the double doors. The ground interior was much like the outside. Upper class seemed to seep from the pure white walls. A crystal chandelier glittered in small rainbows over their heads. Rich golden frames held large gorgeous paintings. The glass lift was also framed in gold. John stood by Sherlock’s side, looking around when the taller man beat him to the button for the lift. 

“Cameras,” John whispered, nodding white fixtures in the corners of the room. 

Sherlock hummed at him. “Yes, and a door attendant.”

“Lots of security for a murder to take place.”

“Obviously.”

John fondly rolled his eyes again. The lift opened and carried them to the sixth floor. More officers roamed around the corridor, whispering as they walked past. They reached the outside of the crime scene when Donovan appeared in the doorway, snapping gloves from her mocha colored hands. Sherlock brushed by her as she greeted. “Hello freak, don’t mess anything up.”

John paused before her. His eyes landed on hers. 

“I don’t remember attending primary school this morning. Quit bullying him for letting him do your job because you can’t,” he murmured lowly. 

There was satisfaction and guilt when her mouth clamped shut and a look of surprise on her face. John offered no apologies even if part of his outburst stemmed from the devastation that he felt downstairs watching the victim’s boyfriend grieve. The dismay had soaked into his skin and the feelings rushed over him when he entered into the flat through the kitchen. 

He was slapped by the homeyness of the flat compared to the upper class design that carried through the rest of the building. Cookbooks were lined on top of grey marble counters. Dirty dishes floated in the sink. There was a bright yellow cookie jar, shaped like a smiley face brightening up the cool colors of the grey kitchen. The happiness of the decoration was ironic to the situation; everything about situation eschewed happiness. John’s pity came in waves when he saw the notepad on the refrigerator. 

‘I love you, see you later - Ollie.’

John turned away from the note and followed the layout into the living room. It wasn’t much better. Photos of two men decorated the walls in mismatched frames. Most of the pictures were all smiles; some had silly faces. There was only one picture, of a large group of people in which neither man was smiling. John recognized the Eiffel Tower in one of the pictures. The last and largest framed photo was of the two men kissing in front of a castle with fireworks over their heads. 

John could see why it was biggest picture; it was a beautiful capture. He tore his eyes away from the pictures and glanced around the flat. It radiated happiness of times spent together and of the future they were building, until a killer ripped it away. Now, all that remained was a shattered life for the other man downstairs, the body draped over an armrest of a red couch and ending with a dark-haired detective studying the crime scene.

“I see you’re finished defending my honor. Gloves?”

A pale hand held out a pair towards John. He took the offered gloves from Sherlock, snapped them on quickly and joined at detective’s side, avoiding the bloodstain that formed on the white carpet. John followed as Sherlock spoke aloud. 

“No defensive wounds like the first two victims. Stabbed in the heart from the front, the killer changed to a longer weapon, judging by the minor exit wound here.” Sherlock pointed out a small pinprick on the grey skin. The smallest river of red had trailed over the victim’s side. “The throat was cut, possibly to prevent calling out for help. Worthless really, the victim would have been in too much pain to do so.”

John found the separated flesh when he prodded gently at the neck so as not to move the body from its facedown position. “But the other two didn’t have-”

“Assuming there was no need in their intoxicated states. He was sober and surprised to find someone in the flat after getting out of the shower,” Sherlock motioned to the white towel, still fixed over the body’s backside. Then Sherlock added, “The killer wore gloves.”

John turned to Sherlock. “How’d you know that?”

“You’re the doctor, what do you make of the marks on the shoulder?”

He focused on four bright red inflammations over the curve of the shoulder. Tiny yellow blisters had begun forming around the inflammations. If the victim had lived, there was no doubt that a rash would have spread and pus would have formed underneath the skin. John had seen enough of this in the clinic to recognize it on sight. Plenty of patients come in, convinced that their skins were falling off only to find out it could be cleared up with a round of creams. 

“Contact dermatitis,” he answered. “The victim was highly allergic to the gloves and the killer grabbed him to stab him. Those are marks from the killer.”

“Yes. If we check inside the bedside table, it would confirm that lambskin would be his choice for protection.” John’s eyebrows met his hairline, wondering what Sherlock knew about different types of protection. There was a temptation to ask about it, but upon seeing Sherlock’s focus, John decided against it.

“Why slit his throat? Victim would have been dead in seconds. Pointless…unless.”

“Unless what?” questioned Lestrade from the doorway. He took occupation on John’s empty side, looking down at the body. “You got something?”

John prodded at the body while the other two men talked. The neck wound was still dripping onto the couch and not in the stage of coagulation. “Sherlock…” 

“The killer is escalating, rather quickly, rushing to perfect the technique,” answered Sherlock. The DI sighed, “What for?” 

“I’m not a serial killer, Lestrade,” snapped Sherlock. His voice echoed in a snarl within the flat. “Desperation, recognition, power, control, take your pick. There are multiple undesirable traits that may relate to this individual.”

“Sherlock…”

“What?”

John met his eyes steel colored eyes framed by dark untamed curls, and the scowl of frustration. He ignored it, plunging forward as the steady head to Sherlock’s whirlwind. “The body, rigor hasn’t set in. The blood is still clotting.”

He could see the thrill in Sherlock’s eyes before he turned towards Lestrade. He bolted to his feet, snapping off the gloves. 

“How long ago?”

“How long ago, what?”

Sherlock pointed to the body. 

“About twenty minutes ago,” answered the DI in confusion. “What are you thinking? What are you both thinking?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I want the precise time of arrival.”

Lestrade flipped through his notebook, “Call in at 7:30 pm. A bus arrived at 7:35.”

“About five minutes after,” concluded Sherlock. His hands fixed underneath his chin and gave the Inspector a surprising look. “A personal record for the Yard.”

“We had a car in the area,” argued the DI, then his face morphed in a frown after realizing what he just said.

John stood; his knee ached a bit as he snapped off his gloves. He met Sherlock’s eyes which wordlessly asked him if he was okay. If he was up for the case. John nodded. Sherlock stalked through the flat and into the corridor. John followed. The confused inspector was directly behind. 

Sherlock suddenly stopped, whirling on the DI, “Lock it down.”

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. “Lock what down? The only one who seems to be following you is him,” he pointed to John. “No offense.” 

John shrugged. “I live with him. It’s hard not to start thinking like him. You need to lock the blocks of flats down.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, your killer is still here,” answered Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ended on a cliffhanger! Please leave comment/kudos and bookmark!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pursuit of the suspect doesn't end well, John and Sherlock understand each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning infant loss is in this chapter and I'm adding it to the tags. Season 4 really did a number on me. As I've mentioned before, this is my "therapy" for it. Thanks ya'll for the kudos/bookmarks/comments. Again- this chapter was beta-ed by englandwouldfalljohn(TheLadyAmalthea).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, BCC or any other variations. Cheers.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 10

His lungs burned, thighs too, as they pursued the suspect up the stairwell. Their heavy breathing echoed off the plain concrete walls. His feet ached from the repeated solid impact of the concrete stairs. John used the safety rail to pull forward, giving him the increased momentum he needed to keep up with Sherlock. The baby’s helpless frightened cries blurred with Sherlock’s yelling from four steps ahead of him. John fixed on the figure dressed in black, not daring to take his eyes off of the person underneath the black mask in case they vanished. If John could bore a hole in the back of the individual’s head, he would, just get the mother’s tear-streaked face and haunting cries for her baby’s return out of his mind. 

John hoped that Lestrade and the other officers had in fact locked the block of flats down. Hoped that an officer was helping the mother. Her bloodcurdling wail had echoed from the floor above, sending Sherlock bolting for the stairwell. John followed, ignored Lestrade’s rambling protests. He wished he had grabbed his gun, yearned for it really. 

Victory pounded through his veins as the suspect rounded, went up another staircase, passing the door that would lead to the ninth floor and instead, going to the last option: the roof. They would be able to corner the suspect, Lestrade would be able to question, and the serial killer would be put away. They rounded another staircase as the darkened individual barged through the final metal door leading to the rooftop.

In twenty steps, they reached the landing. The door creaked slowly closed from the previous impact. John’s heart pounded in his chest, definitely wishing... He paused at the sight of his gun in Sherlock’s hand. 

“When did you grab that?” he whispered in astonishment, grabbing the firearm and automatically checking the safety. Thankfully, it was still on and Sherlock hadn’t been roaming around with gun that could have potentially misfired. 

“At the flat. Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

“The suspect is most likely unarmed given that he fled up the stairwell instead of confronting us. The question is why he fled at all.” 

“Time to have a little chat then? You wouldn’t have happened to bring some tea along with you?” John met Sherlock’s eyes, giving the detective a lopsided grin that was easily returned. John nodded towards the only entrance to the roof, “Ready when you are.”

Sherlock pushed open the metal barrier, John close behind with his gun in hand. The sounds of a sudden sharp crack rang out, drawing distant shouts from below. The reverberation of gunshot drowned out the creaks of the door, a bullet hole wedged in the abused metal where Sherlock’s limb had been. John ducked instinctively, going to one knee, hugging the doorway, his gun at the ready in his steady hand. Sherlock’s pained exclamation and the shrill baby’s cries worried him in his hypersensitive state. 

“Sherlock?” he questioned evenly, his eyes peering around the corner, looking for the target that seemed no longer keen on staying alive by John’s judgment. He was expecting to see Sherlock, lying in a pool of blood again, grey and barely breathing. Expecting his name to be called out as Sherlock bled out, as the detective did when he was in trouble. As he always did. Through his mind flashed memories of pale hands grabbing for him as Sherlock went into cardiac arrest. The desperation in Sherlock’s voice. The sense of panic growing, wondering if Sherlock was…

John opened his mouth, preparing to ask for him again when warmth breath puffed over his cheek as Sherlock’s chin came to rest on his shoulder. John inhaled the faint scent of Sherlock’s cologne, shivered slightly at the brush of dark curls on his cheek. 

“I’m satisfactory. It was just an abrasion.”

“What happened to ‘most likely unarmed’?” he questioned, thankful that the panic had started to subside and didn’t carry in his voice. He shouldn’t have been panicking in the first place. Being shot at was nothing new. John shook his head, tightened his grip on his gun. Sherlock was here, ignoring his personal space as always. It was fine. Everything was fine.

“An oversight.”

John snorted. “It wouldn’t be a day if one of us hadn’t been shot at.”

The baby’s wails morphed into screams. Sherlock pulled away from John’s shoulder and stood. “Apparently, this is going to take a more delicate approach.”

“Sherlock, what are you-“

Before John could finish asking, Sherlock walked through the door with his palms up in air in surrender. John cursed lowly as he watched Sherlock smiled pleasantly, walking away from the doorway and disappearing out of his sight. The only comfort that he had was the continued sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

“Evening. I see from gun in your hand that you are nearing to the last of your ammunition. There’s no need for that, we can have a perfectly reasonable conversation between gentlemen.” 

Well, it wasn’t a comfort now. John closed his eyes. Red beams flickering over Sherlock in the bright floodlight. His palms up in the air. Mycroft’s voice shouting. His own surprise. His eyes couldn’t leave Sherlock’s as he was tackled to the ground after killing Magnussen. Their eyes were still connected as Sherlock was taken away. The longest week, waiting to hear good news that only ended in a goodbye. John clenched his jaw. He couldn’t lose him a fourth time. 

“That’s it, Sherlock, provoke the suspect into shooting you, you git,” mumbled John in annoyance. He tucked his gun in his waistband and stood. He shouted through the door. “Don’t shoot, I’m coming out.”

When he walked onto the rooftop, he paused in his steps taking in the scene. The suspect stood on the edge of the building. The baby squirmed in a bundle in the free hand. He swallowed heavily when he noticed the gun was focused on Sherlock. It was always Sherlock at the wrong end of the gun. He could see her face, pointing a gun at him, thinking that he was Sherlock in their trap. The baby cried. 

He inhaled, seeing the suspect, hearing the baby, and seeing Mary and her gun. Waiting for Sherlock to fall again, this time by a bullet. John desired to have his gun in hand to steady himself. He was a soldier, damn it! He should be able to focus. It wasn’t her that they were chasing even if his head was screaming otherwise. It wasn’t his baby even if his heart yearned to hold it close. He needed something, a danger to focus on. He needed that gun moved off of Sherlock to focus or else his head would be useless. John walked until the suspect turned the gun on him. Relief flooded his system, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t a target at the moment. The aim was steady and determined, not on par with their usual suspects. Something nagged at the back of his head. Putting it off for the moment, he fixed Sherlock with a look and the detective replied with an arched eyebrow. 

‘What the hell were you thinking?’

‘You’re being an idiot, John. I told you to stay there.’

‘No, you didn’t and a bit late for that, don’t you think?’

John turned away from Sherlock towards the dark figure that held a gun at them both. His eyes found the owner of the small hands and tiny whimpers. His heart skipped a beat for the infant. “Why don’t you step off the ledge there, mate?”

The masked figure turned to John. A sneering was clearly audible in his tone even if John couldn’t see his face. The gun waggled in his direction. “I think not, Dr. Watson.”

John took a hesitant step forward, his palms up in the air, placating submission to soothe the nameless man. “Alright, you don’t have to step down, but at least hand the baby over. It’s not good for the little one to be out here with just a blanket.”

“I think we like it up here,” countered the suspect with a laugh and a small dance. The uneven footing made John nervous and he cringed, fighting his urge to tackle the man down, and help the baby that so desperately wanted to return back to its mother. To a person offering warmth, comfort, and home. He took another tiny step towards the ledge when the suspect wasn’t paying attention. 

“It’s the closest to the angels that we’ll ever get,” continued the figure, a dark head tipped down to the baby. “You both don’t seem to understand yet, I’m dead anyways.”

“We can help you,” offered John, his eyes met Sherlock’s. The detective gave a small nod. 

“You can’t help the dead,” the nameless man retorted flatly. There was something in the voice and set of the shoulders that triggered John into knowing. He knew what was going to happen next. Instead of being on the pavement, he was on the roof, watching it unfold. John broke off into a sprint, knowing that Sherlock was doing the same, trying to catch the man disappearing in a swan dive over the edge. All John could see was Sherlock…falling…. 

“NO!”

He was too late. Everything was silent, except his blood drumming through his ears. The darkly dressed suspect disappeared into the inky night. Silence ticked by until John heard the finalized sickening crunch of something landing on the pavement below. Screams burst through the starry darkness. John peered over. His stomach turned; he pulled away from the edge and fell to his hands and knees. Bile rose out of his throat. He choked on words that burned within the stomach acid.

“Oh Christ…”

He gagged on disgust. And pity. He saw her sail over the edge with him, the infant that Mary disappeared off with. His child. He could see flashes of Sherlock and his daughter tumbling over the edge. John spat on the rooftop to get the vile taste from his mouth but words kept tumbling out. 

“Oh…God…jumped…with…”

The sting of tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. The baby’s helpless cries echoed in his head. Something firm and warm grabbed his shoulders. John looked up, finding Sherlock’s sharp grey eyes in the blurry haze. He felt the world shift under his feet and he grasped handfuls of the dark coat, clinging to Sherlock in a rare moment of helplessness. Sherlock was here. He had seen worst than this. Experienced worst. But this was a child. Something innocent.

He knew that his child wasn’t the one who…

Sherlock wasn’t the one who went this time…

John inhaled, cringing at the awful twist of his stomach to fresh air, even if the two bodily organs didn’t necessarily relate to one another. Sherlock’s snappish voice barked at the other voices as they moved away from the dreadful scene. Sherlock guided him down the stairs until he had managed to rebuild himself, but his leg still wasn’t having it. Dimly, he recalled still having a death grip on Sherlock’s arm while answering Lestrade’s questions. 

When they finished with the police, they snuck out the employee back entrance; John was never so relieved to see a readily waiting cab in his life. He huffed out a bit of laughter to Sherlock’s curse as they hobbled over the pavement towards the black car. 

“Mycroft.”

“Better than having to wave a cab down with my leg and all.”

“He probably wanted to send his car.”

John huffed again and offered tiredly. “Probably knew that you would refuse it.”

They climbed into the cab. John shifted between looking out the window and glancing over at Sherlock, whose façade disappeared the moment they pulled away from the block of flats. Orange lights enhanced Sherlock’s features; John noted that his eyes were larger than normal. Shocked.

“Where are we going?”

The cabbie supplied, “221 Baker Street.”

“Home,” answered Sherlock at the same time.

John nodded. “What about the crime scene? And the husband?” He tapped on his leg. “I’m fine if you want to head back to there or to the Yard.”

Sherlock shook his head and pulled his mobile from his coat. “Not necessary, I will inquire information for every two hours from Lestrade.”

“Every two hours?”

“It seems that hearing from me aids him in staying focused on the task.”

“You mean, you pester Greg until he cracks and gets annoyed with you.”

Sherlock didn’t comment.

“I should’ve shot him,” John whispered softly. Lamppost lights flickered inside the cab, immersing them in a pattern of bright illumination and dark. 

“You were doing the honorable thing, John. You appealed to his humanity and yours. It was no fault of yours that the circumstances of this evening reached to that particular outcome.”

The conversation in the cab stopped as Sherlock poked at his phone. John exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if his nightmares were going to return tonight. He didn’t feel honorable. Shooting the suspect would have brought justice for the families. For the victim’s loved ones. To their significant others after so many years of building a future that they could never have again. John snuck a glance at Sherlock, wondering…he shook his head and repeated what he’d told himself earlier that evening. Attraction was fine. Flatmates, best friends were fine. Something else…a bit not good at all. 

The glare of yellow street lamp reflected off of the golden tack across the door as the cab pulled up to Baker Street. When John moved to pay, the cabbie waved them off, stating that it had been taken care of. They hurried inside. John coughed behind his hand to hide a chuckle when Sherlock cursed his brother’s name again as they climbed the stairs. 

John sighed in relief when he walked into the flat. It was a little past nine; giving their statements to Lestrade and the rest of the team had taken bit longer than he wanted. He hummed deeply at the sight and scent of home. It was peaceful, cozy, almost like wearing his favorite jumper on a rainy day. With tea and a book. And the soft tunes of the violin. He shrugged out of his coat. Surprisingly, Sherlock plucked it from his hands. 

“Tea?”

“I think I am going to turn in for the night,” John replied. He wasn’t unusually tired physically. It was the emotional exhaustion that was weighting him down. The case of loved ones being torn away, the crime scene involving two men that were happy and building a life together, the victim who was taken away too soon, and the baby that wasn’t his, but stirred up his own desire to have his child back, and a million other things that he would rather think about alone. John turned to Sherlock as the taller man pulled off his coat. John honed in on the red tint taking over Sherlock’s forearm and his silver shirt. 

“That’s more than just an abrasion,” he noted sternly. John nodded to Sherlock’s arm when the detective looked perplexed for a moment, before looking at his limb in understanding.

“I thought you were going to turn in.”

John breezed past Sherlock and ventured into the kitchen. Luckily, the medical kit was still there from yesterday. Mycroft had texted, informing him that he had disposed of Sherlock’s supplies while they were out. It saved John the trouble of doing it, even though he now had the yearning to break all of it himself into tiny little smithereens. He waved Sherlock in, pointing at the empty chair before rustling around in the medical kit for everything he needed. 

“I won’t be able to sleep without taking care of you first.”

The radio from Mrs. Hudson’s flat carried thought the air, offering a soft tune to the quiet staring stalemate between flatmates, best friends. It was true; John would be unable to get that much sleep, even less so if he knew that Sherlock had an injury that needed to be treated. He knew that Sherlock wouldn’t do it himself. Not without more prompting. And nagging. And hounding. 

Sherlock finally stepped into the kitchen, conceding the stalemate with a grimacing frown that looked as if it took all of his energy to give up this battle with John. Shrugging his shoulders, John gingerly pushed Sherlock into the chair and moved his arm, exposing the wound and quickly went to work. 

He finished in five minutes, wrapping the gauze against the milky white skin. He continued to caress the bandage, knowing that he would have to pull away eventually. He knew that he should, but he needed this. Some small comfort to know that Sherlock was alive, that the baby wasn’t his today, and that the guilt that he felt over something that he couldn’t do anything to help: that his memories on the rooftop made him weak. He should have had his gun in his hand, ready to fire. Should’ve protected Sherlock, the baby. Should’ve done something more.

“John, close your eyes.”

His face snapped back to the present moment. His hands had paused on Sherlock’s forearm. He studied the detective’s face, looking for something that he would probably never see because he wasn’t Sherlock. When he found grey eyes shining silver from the small light from the sitting room, John closed his, knowing that he couldn’t win two staring matches in a row. “What’s this about?”

“Think about the situation on the roof.”

“I would rather not.”

“Then listen,” whispered Sherlock. “Starting when the first shot was made, there were four possible scenarios. First, you could have returned fire, but on chance of hitting the infant, you did not. You could not guarantee the direction of his fall. He would have fallen over the edge or onto the rooftop, and theoretically could have crushed the child with his weight. Secondly, we both could have gone onto the rooftop, and you presented that you were armed. Cornered, either you or I, or potentially the infant becomes a victim immediately. Third, the infant is used as a distraction, thrown to either of us for a chance to escape, and as a doctor, you know how malleable small infant’s neck’s are, a simple toss could have ended the infant’s life. While armed, but knowing that the officers would capture him with that he ends his life with his own weapon. Fourth...is what happened.”

John opened his eyes and chose his next words carefully. “So, you’re basically saying there was nothing I could do? So, I should stop feeling guilty about it? It was a human life. I didn’t care about the suspect…”

“The infant wasn’t yours.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. Feeling his anger shifting to something that he couldn’t understand. A life was still a life. His hands trembled. “But, the baby didn’t-”

“Of course she didn’t.”

He forcibly stopped his fingers on Sherlock’s bandage with a sigh. “Are you tired?”

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes roamed over him. The detective’s face softened as it always did when it was just the two of them in the flat. “Yes.”

Another sigh escaped his lips, thankful that had Sherlock seen his quiet need for comfort. The last two months, he hadn’t asked. Trudging through it, shouldering all of it. It was something innocent that pressed him tonight, causing him suddenly to need this. He couldn’t watch them fall in his nightmares tonight, the man in front of him, and his child who disappeared. 

Wordlessly, he pulled Sherlock to his feet. The detective grabbed the sleeve of his jumper, leading them into his bedroom. John turned around as Sherlock’s nimble fingers made quick work of his silver shirt. He pulled his jumper over his head. There was a spark of humor under the grief. This was second time today that he’d pulled his clothes off in front of Sherlock. The third time that he’d granted privacy for the detective. He placed his gun on the nearest nightstand. When he stripped down to his pants, John climbed into Sherlock’s bed and under the covers. 

His eyes stayed firmly shut, but he could feel the heat of Sherlock’s skin from touching shoulder to shoulder. Leg to leg. John was tempted to make light out of this. But the heat, the silky bed sheets, and the smell of Sherlock’s expensive shampoo drifted through him. Weightlessness flowed over him. John was asleep before he could thank Sherlock, or notice the silver eyes watching over him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warm bed, innuendoes, case discussion...and finally!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, I'm terribly sorry for slamming the brakes on this fic. Season 4 was....interesting. Since I started this fic before Season 4, there will be no references to it. I'm also debating on baby Watson's name- whether it be Rosemund or something else. Anyways, I'll try to be better, and hopefully finish this fic by chapter 25 or so considering they are short chapters. Thank you to my beta- englandwouldfalljohn(The Lady Amalthea).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, or any other variations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 11

John hummed deeply as he stirred to wakeful state. He was not ready to open his eyes just yet. He was content, warm, and otherwise at peace except the itchiness tickling his nose. If only he could ignore that and roll over, another round of blissful sleep would eventually come. It was rare that he got to sleep deeply like this. John shifted slightly to get comfortable once more but realized a matter of two things: One, his right arm was numb, and two, something was mumbling into his chest. 

John’s eyes bolted open, meeting the sight of untamed curls in his face. Dark curls that didn’t belong to him, but instead, to a certain detective. That same certain detective who was his best friend, flatmate and the man that he was attracted to seemingly treating him like a personal pillow to cuddle. Warm huffs brushed against his chest. The dark curls still tickled his nose. John stiffened when he realized just how close they were compared to how he fell asleep last night. Where they had been side-by-side, only touching shoulder to leg, now John could barely move from the trap that ensnared him. One pale arm roped over his torso. Long legs folded over him, tangling with his own. John’s numb fingers were laced within Sherlock’s hair, almost as if like he had been trying to keep him there in his sleep. His other hand held a pale knee. They were utterly and thoroughly woven together. And something hard pressed against John.

Something, which he knew, wasn’t his from the angle. A blush flooded over his face when his something jumped in interest beneath a pale leg. 

“Finally awake then?”

If he could have, John would probably have died from heat stroke caused by his embarrassment, at being caught out by Sherlock. He could try to explain that it was only the particulars of bodily functions in the morning if he didn’t know already that it would be a waste of time. Instead, he looked down at the owner of those limbs, that voice, and the question. Pale opal eyes stared up, a dark eyebrow arched at him. John cleared his throat, trying to chase the morning roughness away. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you entered Stage 1 of your REM cycle.”

“Why didn’t you move?”

Sherlock sighed against his chest. “You complained. You have a vise grip in my hair and on my knee, apparently.”

John chuckled to hide the shiver that Sherlock’s breath had sent across his skin. He removed his hand from Sherlock’s knee. Long limbs pulled away, leaving John cold from the lack of body heat. The covers had probably been lost in the night. The feeling in his hand throbbed from the change of angle.

“Sorry,” John offered gently as he released Sherlock’s hair and the detective let out a small hiss. “I didn’t know I was hurting you.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but moved to sit on the edge of the bed. John moved an abandoned pillow to hide the state that his lower body was in, and took great pains to ignored the state that Sherlock’s was in. As he sat up, his jaw dropped at the sight of Sherlock’s back.

The detective jerked underneath his touch; John pulled away, realizing that he absentmindedly reached out. The alabaster was covered in faded ridges. Some scar tissue was muddled more in several different areas, where the hits had been harder. Hard enough to break skin. All of them were faded. Old. John brushed against the darkest one. “These didn’t happen recently.”

“No.”

John wished he could see Sherlock’s face. “When did they happen?”

Sherlock bent down; John bit his lip as the skin stretched angrily. John heard the rustling, assuming Sherlock was pulling his trousers back on. It was one thing to share a bed, but another to roam about the flat only wearing their pants. John waited for a moment, prepared to change the topic. Surprisingly, waking up together wasn’t as awkward as it should have been, but this…was making it worse.

“While I was away, I miscalculated,” the detective answered quietly. 

“That’s not…”

Right? Fair? Enough? John couldn’t finish talking. He was lost in the marbled map of Sherlock’s back, wondering what might have been different if he had been there. If he would’ve known Sherlock was alive…then maybe…

“Stop thinking John,” Sherlock demanded gently. Soft opal eyes stared back at John, making his heart jump from normal beats to miles a minute. John wanted to say something more, to ask more of Sherlock’s time away. He knew that Sherlock had disbanded Moriarty’s network. But he didn’t know what that entailed, or exactly what Sherlock had been made to endure. The detective stood and crossed the room. “It’s just another scar. You have plenty of your own. I’m going to take a shower.”

John shifted in Sherlock’s bed, knowing that he was right. They both had scars, both physical and mental. He refused to glance at the angry skin littering his left shoulder. 

“You want breakfast?”

The taller man leaned on the open doorway, arms folded across his bare torso. John bit back a laugh at Sherlock’s poufy wild hair from sleeping. Sleep lines were still visible on his face. Sherlock’s thin mouth upturned at the edges, blue eyes thoughtful. 

“You are a romantic, John. Breakfast after spending the night together?”

Rolling his eyes from the obvious teasing and glad that the moment talking about Sherlock’s time ‘away’ hadn’t affected their morning, John fetched his trousers from the floor, smiling and, unfortunately, blushing in spite of himself. He yanked the article of clothing on quickly, feeling more exposed now than waking up pressed together. 

“You’re getting breakfast because we missed dinner.”

“How disastrous,” the detective countered with a sigh. 

John pulled his jumper over his head, his voice muffled as he spoke. “Missing dinner or force feeding you breakfast?” he asked, and then added. “Besides a bit early to talk about ‘spending the night together.’ Even you should know what that means. And you haven’t even kissed me yet.” He hesitated, “unless you don’t…”

“I’m not an idiot, I am aware of what that phrase means,” stated Sherlock, waving his hand in the air, dismissing completely the idea that he wouldn’t know. The room, the space between them, bristled, flaring when their eyes met. John licked his lips and the detective added, “Would you like me to?”

The fear of losing their friendship. The fear of losing Sherlock again. John just got a handle on his attraction to him. Was it too soon to feel that something again? John stared at the floor. They had both been flirting, teasing and Sherlock had responded to John’s boldness. Perhaps, he was towing the line that they had silently agreed to. Perhaps this would be a step over it. 

“I don’t know,” John answered, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

He didn’t know what the detective saw on his face but he pushed away from the doorway. Sherlock called over his shoulder as he went down the hall. “Eggs would be acceptable.”

“Do we even have eggs? Because the last carton…”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’ll make you some bacon too if we have some,” John retorted. “I expect you to eat!”   
The loo door closed with a click and the pipes banged and rattled. Sherlock had started the shower. John ventured into the quiet kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets, starting on coffee before his headache could set in. Seconds later, the aroma drifted through the flat as it began to brew.

Two hard knocks rapped on the door, and before John could reply, it creaked open and the inspector’s voice called out into the flat. “John? Sherlock?” 

John grabbed another mug from the cabinet. “In the kitchen, Greg. I was making some coffee. Do you want some?”

Heavy footsteps rattled the wooden floors. The inspector sighed wearily when he entered the kitchen and sat down in a chair. Red bloodshot eyes stared up at coffee pot. John swiftly interchanged the coffee pot with a mug, filling the cup to the rim. Then he slipped thee pot back into position before handing over the mug. 

The inspector took it readily, already sipping at the heated beverage. “Ta. I’m on my last leg here. I hadn’t heard from Sherlock every hour or two like I usually do. I was wondering if he had thought of anything.”

John poured his own cup. “We were sleeping.”

“You don’t have to be a bastard about it.”

Smiling around his cup, John retorted, “You look like shite, mate.” 

He hummed deeply as the liquid burned down his throat. The pipes in the wall stopped rattling, John turned to the cabinet, grabbing another mug. In the flat another door clicked shut.

“Ta again,” muttered Lestrade, lifting his mug towards John in a silent cheers before taking another sip. “This case…”

John shrugged his shoulders. “What have you found?”

The inspector sighed. “No ID on the jumper. No murder weapon to link back to Martin. No fingerprints.”

“Not in the system?” asked John. 

Lestrade shook his head. “None at all. The bloke had his fingertips burned off.” 

“Oh, that is interesting. Given how often he would have to do so in order to prevent his fingerprints returning.” The detective strolled into the kitchen, donning a black suit that highlighted a pale line of skin and made John’s heart flip flop in his chest. He managed to hand over a mug to Sherlock without spilling. Sherlock joined him in leaning against the counter and continued after taking a sip. “I assume that facial recognition is out of the question considering the state of the body. What about the ‘boyfriend?’”

“You know you were right about them, you probably just asked to get me to say it,” admitted Lestrade as John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who appeared to be drinking his coffee innocently, though he could tell that the detective was inwardly preening from making the accurate deduction. “Oliver and Kyle Izard were secretly married. Turns out that Oliver Martin’s parents weren’t keen on their only child’s sexual orientation,” answered the DI with a sigh. “He left the United States when he was eighteen. They’re flying in; I’m glad that I don’t have to deal with that.”

John nodded in understanding. For some, it seemed that children could do nothing but bring a sense of shame to their parents, even over something that they couldn’t help being themselves. His own experiences with his father, and sister left much to be undesired growing up in the Watson household. Saying ‘I’m not Gay’ was easier, offered his father something like reassurance after dealing with the repercussions of Harry’s coming out. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons that he was so accustomed to war. 

“Then where does that leave us?” John asked when the kitchen fell silent. “What about the knife from the first scene? What about commonalities between Oliver Izard and the other victims? How are they being chosen?”

“The knife was another dead end.”

“Damn.”

“Precisely. The killer altered weapons with Oliver Izard. Without accurate identification or the murder weapon, the serial killer could still be uninhibited or in the morgue. Lestrade, I require all available paperwork with this case to determine the answers demanded by John’s inquiring mind.”

John paused when the two other men glanced at him. Pride danced across Sherlock’s features. His opal eyes from this morning in bed were now a light blue. Sherlock’s inky hair was styled immaculately. Lestrade looked entertained, glancing between him and Sherlock. “If you get tired of Sherlock, you could always work with me at the Yard.”

“Then he would have to see me regardless, and deal with Sergeant Donovan on daily basis.”

Lestrade snorted. “Might not be a good idea after Sally informed me about an interesting conversation at the crime scene last night.”

“Ah,” murmured John nonchalantly. He sat his cup on the counter, went to the refrigerator, and gathered fresh eggs and bacon into his arms. John carefully avoided the questionable plastic bag in the vegetable drawer. “You mean the one when I accused her of being a schoolyard bully and a shoddy detective?”

“That very one,” answered Lestrade with a nod as John moved to close the refrigerator with his shoulder. Instead, a long leg kicked past him, snapping the door shut. The bottles rattled inside. John moved to the counter. He glanced over at Sherlock, “Countertops clean? Pots and pans too?”

The detective nodded. 

John smiled and started on breakfast preparation quickly, grateful that he didn’t have to sanitize every surface in the kitchen again. That task alone could take hours. 

“If you’re sending your brother cake, at least Mrs. Hudson should get flowers for the tidying.”

“She received the engagement ring. What more could she want?”

John ignored the detective and cast a look over his shoulder at the DI, who looked somewhat bemused at their exchange.

“So…” John prompted.

“She expected that from Sherlock, but she was surprised when it came from you.”

“And here I thought the ‘try not to piss anyone off’ warning applied to Sherlock only,” John remarked without a trace of guilt as he broke eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Then he added sarcastically, “Am I in trouble?” 

There was a snort and the huff of laughter. “It applies to the bloody both of you now. It’s hard enough to get everyone to cooperate with Sherlock. Well, tolerate him at least. Don’t need two of him.” Then Lestrade stood, and drained the rest of his cup. He waved to the door. “I should be getting back. I needed a break-”

“From the grieving mother,” Sherlock stated softly. John stiffened before he focused on making breakfast the way that he knew that Sherlock would eat it. It had completely slipped his mind last night that he wasn’t the only one affected. That he may have blurred the lines between his nightmares and reality, but losing that infant was someone else’s complete reality.

He heard Lestrade sigh behind him. “Yeah, I’ve had to explain that two ‘officers’ had tried to talk him down. Explaining that it’s always difficult to judge how a person might react-”

“Gavin.”

“Greg,” John corrected automatically, rolling his eyes at Sherlock as he poured the eggs into the pan on the stove. “It was my second time trying to talk someone down,” John fought the urge to look over at Sherlock. Fought against the way his stomach sunk at thinking about Sherlock on the mobile, on the pavement, and the heartbreak that had followed him for two years afterwards. Then everything with Mary. Fought against thinking about the criminal jumper last night with the infant. “Never had to in the army, and it’s a bloody good thing that I’m a doctor. I would make a shite therapist.”

His attempted joke fell flat. A blaring mobile brought life back into the dead space, jarring John out of his racing thoughts about last night and Sherlock. 

“That would be me,” announced the DI, checking his pocket. He ventured to the doorway. “Text me if you think of anything. This case…last night…it was a rough one. I’ll get all the paperwork gathered up and drop it by later. Bye.”

Lestrade’s heavy steps creaked over the wooden floor and down the stairs, leaving John in the kitchen with Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see that studious gaze roaming over him. Teal eyes focused on his face. John sighed. 

“What?”

“Tension in your shoulders, the unconscious grasping of your fist around the spatula, and uneven footing suggests either anger or pain in your body language. Did you dislike referring to my fake suicide in the context of the criminal last night?”

“I’m not angry.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Right,” sighed John. “No, it didn’t bother me. You’ve told me why, and I’ve forgiven you a long time ago.”

“Then it must be something else. Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

John glanced over to his best friend, his flatmate, and the mad, insane detective who claimed to be a ‘high-functioning’ sociopath. For someone who says that he doesn’t care, he sure did ask that question a lot, especially to him. John wasn’t angry. He wasn’t in pain. If anything at all, he was thankful for the oblivious idiot standing next to him, waiting for the answer to appear on his face. He was happy. Happy that Sherlock was here, standing next to him, which made him waver in his decision of stepping over the line that he had mentally drawn. The ‘I don’t know.’ Closer? Or not? Feelings? Or platonic? 

“Not in pain. It’s a bit more complex than that,” he replied lightly. “Thoughts, feelings…all that with the body language. Defined as dull by you.” 

He shook his head when Sherlock focused sharply on him again. John flipped the eggs around. Teal eyes squinted at him. “You still believe me to be unaware of those then? Thoughts?” Sherlock asked. “Feelings?” He added with a slight grimace that made John snort.

Shrugging, John replied. “It’s all you’ve ever said.”

“If you recall, I also called myself a fraud, did you believe me then?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw you with my own eyes.”

John pulled the pan away from the stovetop, pale fingers brushed over his wooly sweater. “And now? Do you see me with your own eyes?”

There was something about the low tone of Sherlock’s voice that made John turn his head. He jolted with surprise to find Sherlock closer to him than before. Green eyes blazed down at him. John cleared his throat, turning away from the gaze. He licked his lips. “I always see you. Kind of difficult to miss.”

That comment made Sherlock snort. “While I appreciate your attempts at humor to forgo the question, it still stands. Do you or do you not see me? And you know the context of which I’m speaking, so spare me the idiotic performance and the matching expression. Do you want me?”

Ah. John’s mind lit up and he pointedly ignored the idiotic jab. So Sherlock knew that he was attracted to him, that he wanted to act on it, and he was so tempted to do so but he wasn’t. Wanker. He returned the egg pan to a cooler burner to grab two plates. He held them in his hands; unaware of that he was trying to shield himself as he replied. “That…would make things complicated.”

The detective scoffed at him. “There’ve always been complications since we met. I could give you analytical data to prove it. Kissing would temporarily fix what broke while I was away. It slipped by me once, I won’t have it again.”

John turned his head, “What-”

John’s words were cut off, smothered by an impatient pair of lips massaging against his. He froze beneath the onslaught of sensations and feelings. Surprise. Pleasure. Relief. Perfection. Plates dropped from John’s hands, shattering into porcelain remains on the floor, sparkling in the cast of rainbow light through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please comment/bookmark/kudos. It really does keep my spirits with this fic! Thanks!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finish kissing, heart to heart, and the writer undoing a nasty bit of Season 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I want to thank my beta englandwouldfalljohn(The Lady Althaea). This story is still coming, and enter 'the typical busy excuse here'. Sorry! Just hang in there. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 12

Hands cupped around back of his neck, teasing the fine ashy hairs at his nape, holding him frozen or perhaps it was the sudden shock feeling the assault of Sherlock’s mouth against his. With open eyes, John stared over Sherlock’s features, his cheekbones, his furrowed brow, and his closed eyes. John scrambled for balance when he was suddenly yanked to his tiptoes. His whole body tautly stretched to meet Sherlock’s height. His hands seized the counter top behind him. The cupid bow mouth pressed, licked, nibbled against John’s lips attempting to coax him into movement. The detective pulled away with a growl. Dilated green eyes opened and blazed down at him in annoyance. 

“John, I cannot snog you properly if you do not reciprocate.”

He snorted and couldn’t help but to release a high-pitch giggle, which confused the detective before him, “You’re laughing…why are you laughing?” 

John retorted breathlessly, mirth echoed in his voice. He flickered his eyes down, motioning to his toes barely touching the floor. “Is that what you’re trying to do? It seems like you are trying to decapitate me instead.”

Understanding immediately crossed over Sherlock’s features. John released his grip on the counter when his feet met the floor, thankfully missing any porcelain remains shattered on the floor between them. Sherlock stepped over the mess, closing the distance and relieving the strain between them. The detective’s hands remained on John’s skin, tilting his face upwards. John’s eyes roamed over the reddened mouth, the slight flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, and then to Sherlock’s eyes. 

“What are we doing?”

“Snogging. I thought it was obvious.” 

“Yes, I get that but-”

“Must you?” growled Sherlock before capturing John’s mouth again. 

The rest of John’s question disappeared against the blundering tongue in his mouth. He didn’t fight against the overwhelming muscle at the uncomfortable angle. Instead, John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, fixed another hand in the darkened strands, tilting Sherlock’s head ever so slightly down and to the right. Sherlock’s mouth slotted perfectly on his, John groaned at the sensation. He pulled Sherlock’s neck down, returning the kiss with equal fervor, eliciting a hum from the detective.

When his lungs burned for the need of air, John pulled away, pushing at the taller man’s shoulder. He watched as Sherlock’s eyes opened to meet his, John remained stunned from the contact and from the starling silver color of his eyes. 

“Sherlock…”

The taller man began to grin madly and stepped away from John. Sherlock stalked into the sitting room, pacing as he spoke. 

“Histamine would disappear at demise due to the deficiency of brain activity, thus no allergic reaction can be tested on the victim. But it does not mean that we cannot examine the suspect for exposure on his hands.”

John crossed his arms, smiling in the doorway. “So, to Bart’s then?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

John took pleasure in Sherlock’s jarred reaction. “No?”

“Breakfast first.”

“Not hungry. You know I don’t eat on a case.”

John arched his eyebrow, smirking. “You seemed taken with the idea while I was in your bed.”

Sherlock glared at him with a faint redness flushed over his cheekbones. Pale hands were already grabbing his large coat from its usual place. Stubbornness etched over his features, daring John to do or to say otherwise. A challenge bubbled in Sherlock’s eyes. It was dangerous to stand between Sherlock and something that he wanted. John dared to do it anyways.

“You need to eat.”

“And if I refuse?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and then narrowed at John. “I see.”

John remained unmoving as the taller man stalked over to him. “You’re planning on manipulating me to your advantage. The question you should be asking yourself is whether or not I care for a repeated performance.”

“You don’t? You did snog me first.”

He had dared to ask, ignoring the flicker of doubt that Sherlock wouldn’t want this again. Regardless of Sherlock asking him what he wanted. Regardless of the Sherlock snogging him first. Asking whether or not John wanted him. Christ, he did. And like Sherlock, there were some things to use as an advantage. The taller detective did it all the time. Even if his words were an empty threat, one glance over John’s face and the detective would know it too. Sherlock stared, glaring over him before sweeping by, sighing dramatically as he sat down in his kitchen chair. His darkened eyebrow arched at John, wordlessly telling him to get on with the torture, otherwise known as, ‘Substance.’ John couldn’t help but to grin. 

Avoiding the mess on the floor, John grabbed one plates from the cabinet and scooped the eggs onto a plate for the sulking detective. He placed it in front of Sherlock with a remorseful smile. “They’re probably cold now but just eat. It will give me time to shower.”

John walked by, mindlessly patting Sherlock’s shoulder as he went towards the loo.

“Change your clothes, you’ll be presentable enough.”

He glanced over his shoulder, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “I’m not going anywhere smelling like your posh cologne and linens. People would talk.” 

John caught the detective smirking into his eggs before leaving the kitchen altogether. He padded into the loo, closing the door behind him. Swiftly, John stripped out of his clothes that did carry traces of Sherlock’s cologne. It even lingered on his skin. He quickly turned on the shower tap, waiting for the water to warm.

Surprisingly, his gold wedding band was still by the tap. John picked it up between his forefinger and his thumb, conflicted over the span of emotions that churned through his head. He was married, is married to a wife that was missing. Sherlock kissed him. He was married. He cheated on his wife. Sherlock kissed him. He returned it with vigor. What the hell? What would happen if Mary were to suddenly reappear into his life?

That thought startled him, his ring slipping from his fingertips before disappearing down the drain. In a split second, it was gone. The trinket, supposedly the symbol of his and Mary’s love, their promise of spending their lives together, vanished down the drain. John paused in shock. Crestfallen. Then delirious laughter slipped from his lips that morphed into dry coughing. He gripped the sink panting as fog drifted over the mirror. What the hell was he doing? John ran a hand through his hair and groaned. 

It had been two months since Mary’s disappearance. Would he still be with her if she were here? He had been ready to pack before; everything had gone down the metaphorical drain. What would’ve happened with Sherlock then? Three sharp raps rattled the loo door jolting John out of his thoughts. 

“John? You have ten minutes.”

John rolled his eyes. “You take longer in the loo yourself. Let me shower in peace.”

“Ten minutes!”

Footsteps retreated from outside the hall. John hurriedly jumped into the shower. Under the warm spray, John relaxed, his eyes drifted shut. As he lathered his shampoo into his hair, his thoughts began to wander again. All back to that kiss. 

God. They had kissed. It seemed unbelievable to fathom after so many years. And it was a fantastic kiss. But what exactly did it mean for them? Was it a one-time thing? Was it a point that Sherlock had to make to ‘fix’ what he broke? John rinsed the shampoo from his hair, trying to mute out the questions that plagued his mind with the sounds of running water before shutting off the tap completely. 

He toweled off quickly as chilly air bit at his skin. There were too many questions again. And he was unwilling to find out because of fear, rejection, and lastly inexperience which made John huff with slight entertainment. He had experience with women. How different could Sherlock and his experience be? With that thought in mind, he grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor and opened the door. 

Venturing up to his room, John dressed quickly in his usual jumper and jeans combination. Sherlock was waiting for him at the base of the stairs with his coat. John avoided looking at the detective’s mouth, remembering the feel of that mouth against his. Instead, he nodded at Sherlock in thanks, not trusting his voice. The coat felt lopsided when he slipped it on. John plucked the familiar metal from the pocket, casting a look at Sherlock before tucking his gun away underneath his white cable jumper. He followed after Sherlock as the taller man went down the second staircase.

Using the doorknocker, John closed the door behind them as Sherlock flagged down a cab. The journey to Bart’s was quiet. John glanced between looking out the window and at Sherlock, waiting for something. Anything. He opened his mouth, wanting to say…then he snapped it closed, uncertain how to begin. 

“Stop thinking. It’s tedious when you do it.”

John snorted. He turned, glancing over at Sherlock. “Um…back at the flat…you want to explain that?”

The taller man sighed. “Do I need to?”

“I’m married, Sherlock. What happened…it was a bit not good. Even if Mary isn’t here.”

“Your wedding ring has been off for a matter of days. You had clothing packed away. You cycled to work under the pretenses of getting back into the shape you were in before entering a state of martial bliss but we both know that wasn’t quite true. You feel relieved, mostly, now that Mary is gone. You have been sleeping better the last two months compared to when you would come over the flat for ‘hanging out.’ As I informed you, I don’t make mistakes and on the rare occasion that I do, I learn. I refuse to lose you again, and I wish to pursue a relationship with you beyond friendship, ergo the intimacy of the kiss at the flat to demonstrate my intentions. Is that explanation enough for you?”

John exhaled, making his whole being sag against the cab seat. His eyes fell into his lap, where his hands rubbed on his thighs. “I don’t know what to say…I’m not…”

“Please spare me your standard bore of protest,” Sherlock countered with a wave of his hand. “There are many different definitions to describe one’s sexuality. You may not have found other men attractive, and your previous relationship with Sholto leaves the evidence that you do feel something. What? To what level of degree? I am uncertain because of the lack of data. I know that you’re attracted to me. I can reassure you that the attraction and fondness is mutual.”

“So, you’ve felt…”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, and you are aware that I hate repeating myself.”

John shrugged. “Yeah, not sorry one bit. Take it since you keep finishing my sentences and won’t let me get a word in.”

“It’s tedious!”

“Obviously,” John mocked in a low bass with a familiar tilt, which earned a snort from the detective next to him. “But, there are things I want to say and you are going to listen!”

The detective slumped in the seat. John waved a hand between them. “If we start…and Mary comes back, how do we explain it?”

“Simple. You couldn’t have married someone who never existed. It seems that you are the only one holding on the sentiment of marriage where there is none.”

Well, hearing that from Sherlock did sting a bit more than John would have liked it to. He knew it himself, but hearing it aloud from an outside perceptive was completely different. John cleared his throat. “Even so, before anymore repeats of what happened in the flat-”

“Kissing.”

“Yes that.” John said with an exasperated eye roll. Then he added, “I want to be divorced first.” 

“You already committed adultery this morning. I won’t wait any longer.”

He whirled in his seat, pointing his finger at Sherlock. “You will wait. It’s for me. I never cheated on someone I was with and I’m not going to start now.”

“I’ve waited years, John.”

“Then you can wait a bit more.”

The detective’s hands fixed underneath his chin, “Interesting. So you are not opposed to the idea of pursuing a relationship with me, but more of corrupting your moral compass. You want to be all in. Correct?”

John grinned. Something pounded in his chest. Elated. Excitement. Perfection. Only Sherlock would know that he would want to be all in. He had been since day one. Since Bart’s. Since that stupid wink. Since Angelo’s (where he had not been flirting). Since giggling at the crime scene. He met Sherlock’s grey eyes. 

“I’m all in.”

“Good.”

Then Sherlock closed the distance. John protested against the insisting mouth. His hand shoved at Sherlock’s shoulder. Breathlessly, John broke away and fled, squeezing himself close to the other side of the cab as he could go. His mouth buzzed from the contact. His body craved for more. There was a hum of lust under his skin, along with anger. His eyes roamed over Sherlock’s smug face. 

“See? That’s a bit not good. I said no. Next time, ask me.”

The detective frowned at him like a scolded child. Seconds later, Sherlock’s mobile appeared in his hand. Lithe fingers flew over the buttons. “If you were ‘divorced’ I wouldn’t have to ask?”

“Well, it’s always nice to ask first.”

“I’m not always nice.”

“No, you’re not, you git. But, no, you probably wouldn’t have to ask.”

“But you want to be divorced before resuming kissing, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sherlock…what are you getting at?”

The cab pulled up outside of St. Bart’s. Sherlock grinned at him before climbing out of the cab. “It should be done in a day or two.”

“What did you do?” asked John.

The detective shrugged. “Absolutely nothing. Pay the cabbie, John.” 

“Sherlock?”

Then Sherlock took off briskly, leaving John scrambling for his wallet to pay the fare, cursing about tall, git detectives in stupid coats. Then he chased after him. Again. Wondering what the hell he had meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please bookmark/comment/and kudos. They give me writing life!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fond" Sibling bashing, Sherlock's one more deduction, twist and turns of the case nearly close to being solved.... or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And moving forward another chapter for motivation summer. I want to thank you for the comments/kudos/bookmarks. They keep me forward in this story. There is a reference to a polyamorous relationship- more will be build on that in later chapters. If the pairing is not to your liking, the references to the relationship is not important to the overall JohnLock story and can be skipped. But I thought Molly needed some extra love! I want to give a shout to my beta, who makes this story 100x better! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't BBC Sherlock or any other variations. Cheers.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 13

John chased after the taller man, catching up to Sherlock in the quiet corridor. “You don’t just get to stalk off like that. What did you mean by 'a day or two’?”

“Exactly how it sounds, John.”

“What?”

He pinched at the bridge of his nose in frustration. Then John sighed when he thought of something. It would make sense really. “Let me guess, Mycroft? You know, I’m not even going to ask. But did you ever think that I maybe wanted to get divorced in my own time?”

“Of course. But it seems that my meddling brother had the paperwork already in motion due to “-’foreseen circumstances,’” Sherlock retorted with a sneer. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that he bugged the flat…” Sherlock spat, “again, obviously.”

Recalling their earlier activities back in the flat, knowing that there were cameras-that there were people on the other side of those cameras watching them snogging each other’s wits out in the kitchen, and that Mycroft was one of those people, John groaned aloud. “ The foreseen circumstances…so he saw…”

“Yup.”

“Knowing your brother, I’ll probably be divorced by the end of the day. I wonder if also he saw us…” John couldn’t get the words; ‘SHARING A BED’ out, but waved a hand between them. A heated blush crossed over his face. He pulled at the collar of his shirt. This thing bubbling between them was…strange enough. The cameras would have to go. Definitely. 

“Most likely. Do keep up.”

“You would think that he would have better things to do other than spying on us.”

“Nope. That’s why his usual methods of dieting end in failure.”

“I was joking, yesterday, about sending Mycroft a cake. You shouldn’t tempt him into failure like that just so you can remind him of his weaknesses,” John lectured flatly. 

He wouldn’t send Harry a bottle of temptation just because he was irritated at her. Although, there was a difference about not getting along with your sibling verses your sibling invading your privacy. And John wasn’t Mycroft’s brother, thank god for that. The doctor in him knew there was a difference between being an alcoholic, or a drug user compared to liking a pastry a bit too much. But still, it wasn’t kind to set someone up for failure, no matter how much they are a prick.

“Even when he means to invade our privacy in our own home?” 

“You shouldn’t send him a cake.”

Sherlock snorted. “Perhaps I should…I know the perfect chemical mixture for someone his size and weight…”

“Mixture?” John asked before it suddenly clicked in his head- “You can’t drug your brother,” he reprimanded with another sigh, knowing full well of Sherlock’s conspiring tone and being Sherlock’s drugged experiment more than once…apparently. “The whole government would fall if he blacked out for an entire Wednesday.”

Sherlock huffed with a half grin on his face. “Dramatic.”

John grinned at the detective. “Try not to do anything to London while we are living here, yeah?”

“Again, you’re being dramatic, John. It would only be for a few hours. The perfect measured amount to hunt for the cameras in the flat to prevent further interference from him while ensuring country’s safety, of course.”

“Of course,” John snorted. His laughter bounced down the empty corridor. He shook his head at Sherlock. “Only you would think about drugging your brother with cake.”

“I drugged you with coffee easily enough. Eventually theory turns into practice.”

“I haven’t missed another Wednesday, have I?” asked John jokingly. 

“No. A Saturday,” Sherlock answered flatly as he opened the door and disappeared inside. John blinked rapidly, taking in Sherlock’s answer as he quickly followed. 

“What do you mean I missed…when did this…Sherlock!” 

The rest of John’s words were drowned out by Sherlock’s greeting to Molly, who hovered over a body on a slab. “I’ll need to sever the hands from the corpse that was brought in. Lestrade said there was no identification.”

“Good morning, you seem awfully cheerful,” smiled Molly, then the rest of the Sherlock’s words seemed to register as John offered a small nod. “Hands?” she repeated with a squeak.

“Yes,” answered the detective. “I need to test for powder residue to match a particular brand of latex gloves. Which reminds me, John. You need to purchase every brand of latex gloves that can easily be obtained from a walking radius surrounding the block of flats.” 

He bit the inside of his cheek, mind still whirling on the fact that he was missing a full day of his life. John glared at Sherlock, making the detective roll his eyes. “I will tell you about your missing Saturday. Just go get the gloves while I gather the samples.”

“No hands, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

John rubbed his forehead. “You can’t cut the hands off.”

“He certainly doesn’t need them anymore.”

“Can’t you look over the hands without removing them?”

“Where’s the fun in that? His fingertips, John!”

John shook his head. “No,” he stated firmly, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ll want to take them back to the flat. You still have toes from the last time, and I don’t fancy having hands in the fridge from a murderer. Molly, tell him that he can’t take the hands home.”

“It’s not like he’s going to poison the food, John. You know as well as I do that it’s not possible.”

“No, Sherlock.”

“We discussed this back at the flat when we were finished snogging, John,” sighed the detective dramatically. “It’s for the case!”

“No, it’s not!”

“It’s for an experiment then!”

-“We didn’t discuss this!" 

A small squeak of surprise echoed through the morgue. Both men turned to the quiet woman who was still busy with the corpse on the metal slab. Her eyes flickered between them as she pulled away from the cadaver. “Right. Sorry, Sherlock but the hands stay. I’m going to step out for a bit and…”

“There will be no need to cancel your date with Lestrade, Molly. This won’t take long if I’m provided with the correct cold chamber immediately; it’s still early and this case has been growing interesting. Although, I do recommend changing your shoes before tonight, it seems you have a spot of blood on them, most likely from your…second postmortem this morning judging by color. -” The detective peaked at the body on the large metal table. “-It’s been there for about two hours considering this is your third body today,” Sherlock stated. “I know Lestrade sees plenty of blood but -perhaps not third date appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

He snatched up files from the nearest table and quickly moved to the cold chambers, then he froze with the paperwork in his hands. John watched as Sherlock slowly turned back to Molly. Green eyes narrowed at her. “Especially…-”

“How do you know him? It wasn’t me, no, I’ve taken preventive measures to defer your meeting even during the creation of the plan for my fake suicide…it had to be… it was through him, wasn’t it…they’re together?” Sherlock groaned, “Oh god, that was one deduction that I wished I hadn’t seen.”

“What are you going on about, Sherlock?”

“Ms. Hooper has two dates tonight.”

John grinned at Molly. “Good for you, Molly. Cheers.”

“At the same time, John.”

He turned to Sherlock, who studied Molly with a disgruntled expression that was usually reserved for his brother. John glanced over to Molly. She pulled the bloodied gloves from her hands and started threading her fingers through her brunette ponytail. John was a bit more confused than he wanted to admit. And proud of Molly for having an evening to herself after her engagement with ‘look-alike’ or Tim…or whatever his name was fell out. God, he was becoming Sherlock. Nevertheless, Molly deserved to find some happiness. John cleared his throat. 

“Well, it’s not unheard of. Molly doesn’t live here. She’s allowed to have a life that she deems fit outside of work.”

“Obviously.”

John shared a look with Molly when Sherlock stalked over to the cold chambers and dove into work by yanking a small door open and pouring over the jumper’s body from last night. John caught Molly’s eye. She nodded out to the corridor. John nodded back in understanding before turning back to Sherlock joining in on the examination of the body from the other side of the slab. “Do you need anything, Sherlock?”

“No. Go have your conversation while I work.”

“If you’re sure.”

Green eyes glared upwards from the grey body and that was all the answer that John needed. He walked hastily out into the corridor. John waited with his back against the white walls. Minutes later, Molly joined him, missing her bloodied clothes from earlier. Her red, black and blue jumper brightened up the muted tone in the corridor. “Well…I see that you found him,” she greeted with a smile. “Was everything okay?”

John laughed. “Turned out the idiot wasn’t missing. I think he forgot how to answer his mobile.”

“It seemed to work out though…I didn’t miss the ‘snogging’ bit.”

“Well…yes…I guess we are getting there,” John replied with a shrug. Getting there? That was definitely an understatement. He knew what Sherlock -‘supposedly’- wanted. He knew what he wanted. It was the fact that -he couldn’t…didn’t want to do anything while still being married. Both Sherlock, -and he, himself, deserved to be ‘all in’. There was also another complication: what equals to being ‘all in’ with Sherlock? That was something that they hadn’t talked about yet. “Conversations are neither of our strong suits, you know?”

Molly smiled at him, waving her hand. “You don’t need to explain. I’m probably the last person you should be explaining to. Like you said, ‘allowed to have a life that I deem fit.’ That goes for you too. I can’t judge people for what I overhear.”

“Ah! Speaking of that,” John muttered lowly, glancing to the door. “You should know that there’s a spot in the morgue that he’s found that allows him to overhear our conversations.”

She sucked in a surprised gasp; her hand flew to her mouth. A blush bloomed over her face. “Oh my god. So, he’s heard every time I’ve rambled about that purple shirt…”

John snorted. “Well…most likely…”

The door banged opened, rattling the frame and shooting the earsplitting crash down the corridor. John whirled on the man in the doorway. “What the hell, Sherlock?”

Paperwork flew into the air, raining down over their heads as Sherlock joined them, ranting as he went. “The foliage found at the first crime scene disintegrated during analyzing. The traces that were miraculously rescued tested as paper! Paper! What kind of morons do you have in that lab?” 

“Hey now! It’s hardly Molly’s fault!” 

“Does that matter? If she had done it then something could have been remotely salvageable in this case!”

John rolled his eyes at the backhanded compliment. “What about“-

The detective growled- literally growled in frustration. “Oh yes! That lead with the suicidal jumper vanished! Disappeared! The moment you retreated into the hallway!”

“But the allergic reaction…” 

“There was no trace of powder in his fingernail beds! Only the faints of a standard baby powder from the infant last night, so tell me how the jumper could cause an allergic reaction without wearing latex gloves.”

There was a sniff from next to him; John glanced over at Molly, who also caught Sherlock’s unnerving glare. “Oh stop that! It’s just another postmortem to add to your quiet company. It shouldn’t be any different when you meet my brother and Lestrade tonight. In fact, you might prefer the corpses instead.” 

“Sherlock.”

John straightened when Sherlock’s eyes turned to him, glaring as the taller detective rattled off his deduction. “The jumper, obviously male, mid 30’s. History of substance abuse according to the track marks between his toes but not in his arms, which means he was hiding his habit. Junkie turned unconfirmed killer, perhaps for money or trading his services for product. Hair dyed blond, happened recently. Nothing to…oh!”

John arched his eyebrows at Sherlock, whose frustration melted away into a smile. One that John knew meant victory or an idea that could eventually solve the case. 

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I need more data. I need more information!”

“Yeah, I get that…what are you thinking?”

“There’s a fair possibility that the jumper isn’t the only killer, or the killer had assistance.”

“So there’s two of them? Two killers?” questioned Molly.

John’s eyes flickered between Molly and Sherlock. He blew out a lungful of air. “Is that it, Sherlock? Two of them? Are we going to see more victims, then?”

“I don’t know. I dislike not knowing.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before.”

A pale hand waved at him;- John took it as a sign he was being ignored…again. 

“Something’s missing,” Sherlock rambled. His fingers jumped in a sporadic dance against his mouth. Then his green eyes widened and he turned towards Molly. “Personal effects…are they still here or did those forensic idiots defile them too?” 

Molly answered, “They should be upstairs in the lab.”

Sherlock beamed. The littered papers drifted in the breeze as John watched Sherlock disappear around the corner, the tail ends of his coat vanishing “mysteriously.”- John bet that his collar was turned up as well. 

“He always stalks off like that. Is it frustrating?”

John smiled down the empty corridor. “A lead, apparently. There’s no stopping him with that. Shall we go see what he’s figured out?”

Molly shook her head, her brown ponytail waving behind her shoulders, brushing against her white lab coat. She motioned to the morgue door and walked over. Her hand rested on the silver handle. “I have to get back to Mr. Garrideb. I have two more postmortems after him. I’ll probably see you both later.”

“Mostly likely. You know Sherlock. Never still for too long. See you later,” John slowly drifted away, inching in the same direction that Sherlock went.

She waved lightly in dismissal. John grinned at her. He returned the wave and continued down the hallway as Molly disappeared behind the closed door. Then he ran when the coast was clear. Hustling to get back to Sherlock’s side and know more about the case, to feel excitement pounding through his veins. His phone chimed in his pocket. He ignored it. 

His footsteps echoed as he rounded a corner and crashed into Sherlock. John’s eyes roamed over the unruffled detective. “I thought you went to the lab.”

“I did.”

“And?” prompted John. He locked his eyes on the black shiny shoe hanging at Sherlock’s side by a pale finger. Then he looked down, seeing Sherlock’s black sock, toes wriggling around. “Is that your shoe?” John held up a finger, “Never mind, you’ll explain it, won’t you?”

“It is and yes, I connected the soil from my shoe to the deceased, matching the same particles outside the row of flats. We need to see Lestrade. Our jumper was on the scene. Responsible for the murder of Oliver Izard”

John grinned. “Right then. Off New Scotland Yard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please comment/Kudos/and Bookmark!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New case developments, and John's up and down 'not-emotions' everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for all the comments/kudos/ and bookmarks. This story is still going, I have up to Chapter 18 written out. For as short as the chapters are for this story, I feel like it's not going to end until about Chapter 50. Perhaps I should make longer chapters...We'll see. I want to thank you to all my betas who reviewed over his chapter. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations. Cheers!

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 14

Silence befell the DI’s simple office in New Scotland Yard while three men crowded around a computer. John watched the footage of the CCTV over Sherlock’s right shoulder. The scent of the detective’s cologne wafted over his nose, the pale column of Sherlock’s neck teased him with every throb of Sherlock’s pulse. John licked his lips; glances flickered between skin and screen. His shoulder brushed against Greg’s, who was perched over Sherlock’s other shoulder, watching the small computer screen with rapt attention. John signed deeply, ignoring whether to follow his impulse or his urge to solve the case so he could get on with snogging a certain detective. Not Greg. The other detective. He had to consider his intuition as well, waiting for his impending divorce in order to snog said detective. John shook his head, erasing that last thought. It was no longer pending divorce, at least, according to the text message that burned within his pocket when he glanced at outside of Bart’s while Sherlock had hailed a cab.

‘It’s done. –MH’

John bit his tongue about the news while on their way to New Scotland Yard, instead he had listened to Sherlock, as the detective explained that there was no way to prove the ID-less jumper was indeed Oliver Izard’s killer, or even related to the other two victims. Sherlock was on a case, buried in The Work, the evolution of their ‘relationship’ could wait. It had to wait. John nodded here and there as Sherlock expounded that the dirt placed the jumper at the scene. It also didn’t help that the jumper was, in fact, at the scene while they were there. But blood, no murder weapon, not even latex gloves could actually conclude that the jumper killed Oliver Izard. The best chance to connect the jumper to the crime was the footage of the video cameras located inside, and around the block of flats. They have been cooped up in Greg’s office for at least one hour, if not more, watched through the first video from inside the upper class lobby. After deciding there was nothing suspicious throughout the footage, they moved on the footage for the outside the lobby.

“Pause it there, Lestrade.”

Sherlock’s voice and a quick-click of a computer mouse made John narrow his focus from pale skin to the screen before him. Three figures stood outside the row of flats, seemingly immersed in conversation. The panicked door attendant from last night was missing. Familiarity tingled at the back of John’s neck as he stared at the footage. Another click started the footage from the stopping point. Ten minutes went by on the tape, and the three men, John determined by body structure, separated. One man entered into the row of flats, which was interesting because he wasn’t on tape inside the lobby. John frowned and let out a low hum from the back of his throat. Sherlock inhaled lowly, glancing at John with one eyebrow raised, telling John that he noticed it as well. The other two men grabbed a cab, and drove off out of view.

“Rewind it.” 

“What is it, Sherlock?” questioned Greg as the footage ventured backwards. 

The DI sighed when Sherlock didn’t put forth an answer. Instead, John offered, “The man who entered the lobby, he wasn’t in the other footage.”

“Then where did he go?”

“Stop there, Lestrade.”

Familiarity still nagged at the back of his mind while he analyzed the screen with the three men, starting their conversation over again. What was it that was bothering him? John watched as one man threw his blond head back and laughed silently. There was nothing noticeable about all three men. One had brunet hair, styled in small spikes from his forehead, and dressed in simple black on black. Another man wore a white baseball cap; turned backwards in way that tourist Americans would wear, paired with a white vest and black trousers. The flat bill pointed at the camera, giving a view of the man’s back, but no face.

John licked his lips, focusing on the blond and the brunet- there was something about the brunet that he couldn’t place. “Sherlock, doesn’t the blond male look a bit like the jumper from last night? I mean, from what was left of him at the morgue. About the same height and weight.”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least we have a full profile on CCTV to use for possible ID,” remarked Lestrade. “Maybe his identity can make a new lead.”

“Don’t count on it, Gavin, -” stated Sherlock, earning a sigh out of John, that Greg echoed from Sherlock’s other shoulder. -“I don’t think he was important. John, what do you make of the brunet man? There’s something remarkably unremarkable about him, wouldn’t you say?”

The wall clock in Greg’s office clicked in the silence as John pondered on the image of the brunet, wondering what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. Trying to connect his subconscious mind to his forefront one. The brunet was standing next the bill-capped man. His black on black dress did nothing to spark a thought. John bit his lower lip as the man on the screen turned his head in flickering conversation between bill-cap and blond. Ah! John inhaled sharply, recognizing that look from days ago while he was in their flat. The uncertainty was absent from his face, making the face hardened with wear opposed to the young features, but it was the flash of something on that hardened face that triggered John’s memory. 

“Isn’t that Joseph Mollet?”

“Who?”

John answered the confused DI. “He came to the flat, with a case about his missing sister, Merry Mollet.”

“But Merry Mollet didn’t have any known siblings,” argued Lestrade. “Her family history is her file.” The DI pulled away from Sherlock’s shoulder, moving to the cream-colored files on the end of the cluttered desk. -“Confirmed only child of Martha and Andrew Mollet, both died in a car crash when she was ten. Jumped around in the system until she was legal.” 

“I guess he wasn’t lying about that. Whoever he is, he must have known enough about her family life in order to make up a case”. John glanced at Greg, who was silently flicking through the papers, rereading the information, and then John returned his gaze to the computer screen where Sherlock had happily taken over control of the abandoned computer mouse.

“Lestrade, is there any other camera angles from across the street? Is there any more CCTV footage that brother mine wooed you with? -” Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing the question, and almost slapping John in the nose in the process. “No, never mind. I know his face, why do I know his face? Oh.”

There was something in Sherlock’s deadened tone with his typical ‘Oh’ whenever there was a possible breakthrough that concerned John. He knew something was wrong when he turned his head, glancing over Sherlock’s side profile. A small flash of vulnerability on Sherlock’s face disappeared when the DI joined them. But John saw it. He recognized that look. It was the same from the swimming pool, when Sherlock had thought he was Moriarty for a brief second. Thinking about it, triggered the ghostly scent of chlorine, sending the first traces of heat and sweat down his spine. It was very similar to the look he had when he gave John his supplies days ago but not quite. It was the look that could be fixed on a child’s face when they recognized the monster underneath their bed and it was real. It could hurt them. Kill them.

“Sherlock, who is it?”

“Sebastian Moran. He was a part of Moriarty’s web. He was arrested for crimes against Queen and Country for attempting to blow up parliament. We prevented that from actually happening.”

John inhaled sharply as he recalled the abandoned tube, the bomb, and humdrum panic he had felt at that moment. The anger he still had felt at Sherlock for leaving him alone, for hurting him with his fake death, and the epiphany that he actually forgave him during what he had thought were his last minutes. 

“Joseph Mollet is Sebastian Moran? Why didn’t you recognize him at the flat?”

“If he was arrested, how the hell did he get of prison?” asked Lestrade.

“To answer both of your questions, I don’t know. I suspect I was a bit distracted with Mary’s disappearance, Moriarty’s potential reappearance-”

“And planning fixes around my schedule and getting high might have something to do with it,” John added to inform Greg, so the DI could also be on ‘Team Clean’ with him, Mycroft, and Molly. Sherlock sighed when Lestrade glared at him. “Yes, John, but that’s not important. What is important is just how did Sebastian Moran escaped prison.”

Suddenly, John stepped back when Sherlock rolled back on the computer chair. The detective stood, pulling his belstaff coat tighter around his frame. John righted, straightened up as if they were going into war. Or at least, battle. 

“Lestrade, I’ll leave you to deal with Mycroft. We have to get back to Baker Street right away.”

Lestrade protested, tailing after them as Sherlock stalked out of the small office, and through New Scotland Yard. 

“Hold on just a second, Sherlock. I need more information about Sebastian Moran. What makes you think he escaped?”

John stopped abruptly to avoid crashing into Sherlock as he whirled around to face Lestrade. “That’s not the question anymore, Detective Inspector! The question is how and why did he escape? Why now? Sebastian Moran, caught on camera, at a row of flats where a murder happens to be, and could potentially be linked to the other crimes! It’s not a trail; it’s a trap! ”

The last of Sherlock’s words echoed in an unexpectedly silent room. Eyes of the Yarders stared at them. Phones rang, but no one made a move to answer. It seemed as if someone said freeze, and nobody moved. John nodded lightly to the stunned DI as Donovan approached the spectacle. Before she was close enough, he pulled at Sherlock’s coat, dragging the heavily breathing detective out of the building. Sherlock and his long limbs did not protect as they trotted along the corridors. It worried John even further, because when Mr. Punchline was quiet, things do not fair well. 

The bright sunlight momentarily blinded him for a second. John waved for a cab, and by some miracle, one pulled to the curb. Wordlessly, John ushered the detective inside before joining him. He slammed the door closed. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. John cursed lowly. He had other priorities other than catering to another Holmes. 

“221 Baker Street,” demanded John at the cabbie before turning back to Sherlock. The detective was huddled in the farthest corner of the cab. Sherlock curled his long body against himself, obviously avoiding any physical contact with John. His mobile buzzed again. John grabbed it, answering it snappishly. “What, Mycroft?”

“Not Mycroft,” came Greg’s voice from the other side with a sigh. “I just want to let you know that I called him. He’s looking into it now. How’s Sherlock? I’ve never seen him like that.”

“He’s….”John trailed off, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock. He was still staring at nothing, but his breathing leveled. It was a relief for John, knowing Sherlock would not pass out from shortness of breath. He knew Sherlock experienced another ‘not-panic attack’ earlier. Now, he didn’t seem too different. John cleared his throat. “He’s thinking. Hasn’t said anything aloud yet.”

Another sigh hummed over the line. “Right then. So…he thinks it’s a trap? What kind of trap?”

“I have no idea, Greg,” he answered truthfully. The mobile beeped his ear, John pulled away, and the read the caller ID. Mycroft. John sighed before returning the phone to his ear. “I’ve got to go. Mycroft ringing.”

“Yeah, let me know, alright?”

John nodded. “You could probably just ask Mycroft later, I heard that you have a date with Molly and him.”

“Well…that’s a bit new.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Not like this case. Better not keep him waiting. Holmes wait for nothing,” stated Greg. “Bye.”

The end of the line buzzed empty before John could even offer his farewell. He quickly answered the phone to another pain in the arse. He couldn’t even get a ‘Hello’ in before the older Holmes started. 

“Tell brother mine that the real Mr. Moran did not escape from prison on my watch but never was incriminated. Unfortunately, I was…blindsided and a replacement had taken his place for his crimes.”

“So what you’re saying is, that Moran has been out there, the whole time?” John questioned, his eyes met Sherlock’s when the detective snapped to attention. “For as much as you boost about your connections, Mycroft, you really should check your employees. I’d recommend paying them more.”

“I have.”

“You should offer benefits then,” countered John.

“This is not something to take lightly, John.”

“I’m not!” John snapped, his eyes taking in Sherlock again when the detective turned away. “So, Moran’s out. Does that mean he’s the one murdering all of these people?”

“A wonderful question currently without an answer. I’ll get back to you. Tell brother mine to refrain divulging anymore into this case. I’ll get my best people on it.”

Before John could respond, the phone was snatched out his hand. “Your best people? Your best people can’t even tell the difference between a threat to the country and an innocent man! I’ll handle this.”

John watched in silence as the anger melted from Sherlock’s face to blank perfection, he could only guess what Mycroft had said in order for Sherlock to change so quickly. He didn’t like it one bit. John pulled the phone from Sherlock’s hand, and placed it to his ear, only catching the tail end of the conversation. He held the detective away with his other free hand, avoiding the long arms that reached for his mobile.

“-tortured, Sherlock. Serbia could’ve ended worse than scars on your back. Do tell me if you choose to keep Dr. Watson out of the line of fire again. That-“

The rest of Mycroft’s words disappeared when Sherlock stole his phone back. “Do shut up, Mycroft,” snapped Sherlock. His pale thumb jabbed at the phone once before tossing it back to John. 

John glared at Sherlock. The air in the cab was thick and suffocating. He wanted yell, scream at Sherlock that he better not think once about leaving him out of the fire again. He wanted to shake some sense into the detective. Silence lingered between them until the cab pulled up to the curb outside of Baker Street. John glanced up to the second story as he got out of the cab. His eyes fixed on the windows where they both call home, not knowing what he was going to do or say when they were alone. But something needed to be said, and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave comments/kudos/ and bookmark! They give me writing life!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at 221B, the boys talk to each other, and make up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all. To warn I did use some Season 4 dialogue but I think it's hidden well enough not to reflect the scene that it came from, not that it was a bad scene in the show- it's one of my favorites actually. In this case, the scene is different, so it has a different context. There's also small references to other Sherlock Holmes works. You know what, ignore me. Read it. I hope all of you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave comments/kudos and/or bookmark. Until next time. A special thanks to my beta: whitehart and everyone else who looked over this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations. Cheers.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 15 

John mentally counted up the seventeen steps as he climbed them. He felt Sherlock venturing behind him as a dark, silent shadow. Clenching his hands into a fist, he hung them to his side like a soldier, ready and at attention. He braced for the fallout and the news that he thought Sherlock was going to deliver. He wasn’t going without a fight. Back then when Moriarty was a threat, he had decided to be on Sherlock’s side, figuratively. Now, it wouldn’t be any different except he was going to be there, physically, utterly and completely. He wouldn’t let Sherlock cast him away even with this new development. This ‘Trap’ as Sherlock had said. A trap, for what? For who? Either way, he was here. Even if he had to handcuff himself to Sherlock, he will make sure of that. 

He opened the door to their flat and walked inside. Immediately, he was embraced with a sense of home, belonging, and peace that now it was just the two of them. Although it being home, John was livid with his flatmate. His ‘All In’, who was pacing about the sitting room like a mad man, contradicts his somewhat passive behaviours in the cab. Sherlock stalked into the kitchen, then back into the sitting room. Long fingers ran over John’s chair, then to Sherlock’s, over the dust collecting on the fireplace that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t gotten to yet. After touching everything in sight, Sherlock had stalked down into the hallway, in the direction of his room. A loud thump interrupted the low ramblings of the detective. 

“What are you doing?” John blurted out, following the commotion. 

He paused in the doorway, watching confusingly as Sherlock stood up from the floor and stripped his linens from his bed. Then the detective viciously whipped them across the room. The picture of the periodic table shifted precariously on the wall. John crossed Sherlock’s bedroom, righting the picture before it could fall. He turned to face the detective, who perched on his bed on all four limbs, hovering an inch away from the bare mattress.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked, ending with a sigh. “It looks like you were planning on doing the washing, but I could be wrong.”

“Don’t worry, John. Your bedroom is next.”

“Why would my-“ John shook his head, not bothering to finish the rest of his question. “What’s all this about? My linens don’t need to be washed.”

“It’s not about the linens, John! That is utterly pointless. No, he’s probably been in here, poking around in our belongings while we’ve been chasing dead ended leads in this case!” Sherlock ripped away from his bed and paused before John. Grey eyes flared in frustration. “It’s about Moriarty’s web, and Sebastian Moran, the trap, the message-”

John immediately grabbed at Sherlock’s shoulders when the detective seemed to have zoned out. Or into himself, by the looks of it. Eyes were open, vacate as if Sherlock retreated into his mind place without having to make a sulk of it on the sofa. Carefully, John navigated Sherlock backwards, aiming to hit the back of Sherlock’s legs on the edge of the bed. The taller man seemed to revive from the gentle impact of his bum landing on the bed. John stared down at Sherlock when he inhaled sharply. His hands firmly kept Sherlock sitting down when the detective tried to stand.

“Stay seated, Sherlock.”

“I’m perfectly-“

“That was not a request,” countered John in his tone that he used as a commanding officer in the army. The very tone that demanded obedience, which his commands were to be adhered to without questions. 

“John-“ 

“And shut up while you’re at it. I know you hate it when I’m repeating myself, but what is this all about?” asked John, his eyes flitted back in forth, taking in green eyes, wondering where this conversation would lead to. “Does whatever you’re thinking have to do with Sebastian Moran? Jim Moriarty? Talk to me.”

“Before his death, Jim Moriarty had stepped in our flat. Not once, but on multiple occasions. Slept in our beds, messed with our things. You never knew or noticed. I would have Mrs. Hudson wash everything he touched. I would start an experiment to cover the scent. I had…believed…that Sebastian Moran would have been here as well. Everything that Moriarty would have touched hasn’t been moved.”

John glanced over his shoulder, pondering if he should expect Moran to suddenly appear in the doorway. It was empty. John returned his eyes back to Sherlock. “Moriarty walked away that day at the pool, but on the roof, you said he blew his brains out. No one can walk away from that. Right now, you are remembering a ghost and nothing more.”

Sherlock snorted. “The Ghost of the Consulting Criminal. Is this the official working title for next blog entry?”

John grinned in spite of himself. “All I meant was that you’re placing too much expectations on a dead man. That’s all. Back on the tarmac, you said he was dead, and you also said that you knew what he was going to do next. Is this it?”

“Perhaps. But a web always needs a spider to rebuild.”

“And Sebastian Moran is not spidery enough?”

His remark got Sherlock to chuckle lightly, “I don’t know.”

John nodded. “Well, how about this? We will solve this case first and tackle Sebastian Moran next.”

“I’m hoping you mean figuratively.”

“Maybe literally, if and when it comes to that. We haven’t had a decent chase in London’s Underground for a while.”

Green eyes stared up at John. Brightness shone in them, happiness, and disbelief. “Just like that? Even if it’s a trap? Or if Moran has nothing to do with murders?”

John nodded again, smiling down at Sherlock. Sometime in their conversation, his hands had navigated upwards, cupping around Sherlock’s cheekbones. His roughened fingertips barely caressed the still smooth skin. It seemed that he was doing the aging for the both of them. Sherlock still had youth on his face with few lines drawn to make himself look older. It wasn’t noticeable at all really. The detective sitting before him was a gorgeous man. 

“Just like that,” John repeated softly. He fought against the temptation of smoothing his thumb over Sherlock’s lips just to see how they felt underneath his fingertips knowing twice how they had fit against his lips. John grinned; knowing that he could now closed the distance between them, properly this time. Instead, John added, “You ought to remember that I’m all in. What about you, Sherlock?”

“Obviously.” 

“Good,”- John inhaled deeply, recalling what he really wanted to say after the cab ride before he got too distracted with his newly rediscovered attraction for Sherlock. Before the temptation to touch completely overshadowed the conversation he needed to have with the man before him. Whatever expression that was on his face made Sherlock sigh loudly. 

“John-” 

“No. I need to say this, and you need to hear it. Now, if you try to protect me, or leave me out of this fight, Sherlock, I will drag you to New Scotland Yard, lock you in a cell and give Mycroft the key, is that clear?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, hung an expression of disagreement on his face. John just stared down at him, using their reversed heights to loom over the detective, just as Sherlock had done to him so many other times. Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut, his head nodded within John’s hands. 

John huffed with relief, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me for letting you place your own life in danger,” Sherlock said flatly with the last end of a sulk. It made John grin just a bit at the Sherlock looking down at the floor, doing his best not to make eye contact at John, even if he had Sherlock’s face cupped between his hands. 

“Fine, I won’t thank you or remind you that my life is my own-“ that remark earned John a disgruntled huff from the detective, but he continued, “But I have something to ask you.”

“Out with it.”

“Can I kiss you, properly this time?”

That question got Sherlock’s immediate attention. Blue-grey eyes jumped from the floor to quickly roaming over John’s features. “You’re divorced,” Sherlock concluded softly. 

John nodded. “Didn’t want to say anything while you were in mid-deduction and focused on the case. Been so for a couple of hours, now.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t need clarification of Sherlock’s remark. That was his answer. John smiled down at Sherlock. The confident man who had snogged him in the kitchen this morning was completely different under his hands. Two pale rose blemishes stained Sherlock’s cheeks. A reddish flush painted over his graceful neck. Grey-blue eyes flickered at him, going between looking at John’s eyes and mouth. Nervousness, eagerness, perhaps a bit of trepidation. John had some reservations when Sherlock had flippantly said that the attraction and fondness was mutual. Now, under his hands, John understood. Because he knew how it felt. Utterly. Completely. 

“Brilliant,” he murmured. His face tilted down and closed to the distance to the expecting lips below. John hummed deeply when his lips met Sherlock’s. The sound echoed in a deeper octave. Not from John. He felt light pressure on his hips when he kissed harder, massaging Sherlock’s in languid movements, as if Sherlock were a rare delicacy that needed to be slowly tasted in order to be fully appreciated. The comparison wasn’t too far from the truth. 

Most people couldn’t see Sherlock, couldn’t see the heart of the man behind the brain. There was a kind and loving man behind the persona that Sherlock wore like his coat around clients, the detectives at New Scotland Yard, and his brother. John saw him, as Sherlock, the detective, and the heart with a brilliant mind, as a whole soul made for John and him alone. From what was a rough declaration this morning, full Sherlock’s intentions, this kiss was John’s - of his thanks, his understanding, and his want. 

The hands gripped tight around his hips, and tugged. John pulled himself closer to Sherlock’s body, stepping between opened legs. John sealed his lips on Sherlock’s, opening the mouth under him to explore Sherlock’s taste with his tongue. His hands dove into the inky curls. John pulled gently at the strands, and he swallowed Sherlock’s moans. His hips burned with need when Sherlock’s hands moved across bared skin. John didn’t notice that his tucked jumper had been carefully removed from his trousers. He broke the kiss with a breathy chuckle and a moan of surprise when Sherlock’s hands came over his arse, kneading into the firm muscle. 

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste of Sherlock on his lips. Sharing his air that he breathed. John dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair, fingernails lightly massaging the detective’s scalp. Sherlock moaned softly. John smiled when he was pecked lightly on the lips. “Jesus, you’re fantastic.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Laughter bubbled from John’s mouth. He opened his eyes, grinning when he found Sherlock smiling up at him. 

“Git,” John murmured with affection. His hands caressed over Sherlock’s face, pale hands suddenly captured his, pulling at him until John sat alongside Sherlock on the bed. It was John’s turn to be nervous. He twisted his hands out of Sherlock’s larger ones. “Sherlock-”

“We aren’t going to ravage each other right now. There’s something I’ve wanted to do, and only had seconds to do so days ago.”

“Oh? So you are planning on us ravaging each other in the future? ” John asked, eyebrows arching at the detective. 

A lascivious grin bloomed across his face. It was the look that he used women in the pubs, one that ended with him going home with her. But that was years ago, before he was married, even before he met Sherlock. He used it now, only to see how Sherlock would react. John smiled when Sherlock froze, red-faced, blinking as if John had stunned him. John didn’t know what he liked more, kissing Sherlock or flirting with him. Gingerly, John covered Sherlock’s hands with his. “What was it that you wanted to do? All you have to do is ask.”

“I would like to see and touch the scar on your shoulder. May I?”

At first, John blinked in surprise. Then his heart started pounding. His scar. Sherlock had asked to see and to touch it. He had only let himself alone see the silvery jagged scar tissue in the mirror reflection in the morning. Only himself got to see it if he turned his head. There was not another pair of eyes that had set on his scar, not Mary or any others that had spent time in his bed after he returned to London. It was his reminder to himself that being an army doctor wasn’t enough. It was a trophy of his discharge because he was deemed useless as a soldier. He always wore a vest underneath his shirts to prevent the roughened skin from dragging over fabric so he wouldn’t have to feel it. The scar was an ugly reminder of his demons inside. 

John cleared his throat, straightening his back. His eyes focused on the wall before him. “The scar? You really want to see that?”

“Of course.”

He inhaled deeply before pulling the oatmeal-coloured sweater over his head, and placed it in his lap. His hands started on the collar of his button down. Then he paused. “This isn’t a trade or anything, but someday, I would like to know what happened when you were gone, including Serbia.”

Sherlock echoed his earlier words, “All you need to do is ask,” mimicking John’s words earlier, “But right now, I would like to-” the detective motioned to John’s collar as he worked at the small buttons. 

John lowered his hands, tilted his head back so Sherlock had more room to work. He could still taste Sherlock on his lips when he licked them. He could hear his own pulse pounding heavily in his ears, in his chest, and in his head. The pulse thumped through his body like a deep bass to music, and the volume increased as the row of buttons decreased, opening to reveal his white well-worn vest underneath. 

Large, elegant hands pushed the shirt down John’s shoulders, down his arms, and froze at his wrist were the buttons still held. Sherlock’s hands returned to the exposed skin, to the ruined silver trails of his scar. John shivered as fingers traced over it. Sherlock leaned over, his lips caressed over John’s features as the detective whispered against his skin. 

“John, you say your life is your own, that no one should protect it but you.” 

John’s eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock’s lips ventured down his neck, kissing into his pounding pulse. He hissed lightly and shivered when the mouth gingerly sucked over the sensitive skin, abusing it into a sting. A soft kiss nurtured to a dull buzz. Hands played on the edge of his vest as Sherlock’s mouth moved lower. 

“It’s an interesting thought, lives end, and once it’s over, it’s not the person in death that will miss it, but the people that were left behind.” John groaned when a warm tongue licked over his collarbone. The fabric of John’s cotton vest stretched with soft crinkles as Sherlock exposed his ruined shoulder completely to the sun lit bedroom. John exhaled, and threw his head back when gentle kisses peppered over the ugly silver webbings. Nimble fingers followed the pathways of scar tissue caused by the secondary infection. John bit his lip when a warm tongue crossed over the pathways.

“Oh god,” John utter lowly when Sherlock kissed, worshipped at the circle of his scar where the bullet cut through, and almost killed him. It brought him home as a shell of the man he was. No longer was he a soldier, or an army doctor. He was nothing until… here, now; in the arms of the man who gave him a purpose, a war, which gave him life again. In his sight was a man, lovingly caressing John’s shameful wound. John trembled against the significance that Sherlock touching his shoulder as his ‘all-in’ was more intimate than any of his experiences with past lovers. 

“You should know that feeling of grief, and I wish you didn’t. I can never apologise enough for what I did. But do keep your hands off your life. It is not your own, and I do not wish to be left behind. And in trade, my life belongs to you. I will never leave you behind under any circumstances. I swear it. Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So how was that? Please leave a comment/kudos and/or bookmark. They give me writing life!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make up, domestic routine, the summons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank for all the comments/kudos/ and bookmarks. They've been lovely and I love hearing feedback for this fic. I want to also thank my beta: Whitehart for looking over the chapters. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 16

John opened his eyes and turned his head. Inky dark curls blocked him from seeing Sherlock’s face. And he couldn’t have that. Not after what Sherlock had said. Those words struck a cord within him, resonating louder than the best man speech that Sherlock gave at his wedding, the vow that he made before John danced with the wrong person, and their exchange on the tarmac. John would remember those words for the rest of his life. 

“Sherlock…” any other words that John had, escaped him as he pulled the detective upwards with a gentle hand around the sculpted features. Sherlock followed the pressure willingly. John sighed when he saw Sherlock, prismatic eyes closed, and face shocked, like the last bit was a confession of sort, an accidental deduction that he discovered about himself. John didn’t care. Intentional or not, he closed the distance, bringing that full, soft mouth to his.

John hummed into the kiss when Sherlock’s arms encircled around him, tracing his long fingers along John’s back. His vest wrinkled upon the pressure of Sherlock’s fingertips. John could feel the warmth of those hands over his back, burning into his skin underneath. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s mouth, “I have no plans on dying anytime soon.”

“You don’t for plan death,” stated Sherlock. 

“You did,” John countered.

Sherlock pulled away. John’s lips still buzzed from the contact as he met Sherlock’s grey-green eyes. “I didn’t die though. If Moriarty was slightly cleverer or myself a little less…well…”

A low growl echoed in the bedroom chiming in before John could remark. John arched his eyebrows. The sound didn’t come from him. The hands on John’s back immediately fell away. He grinned when Sherlock whispered to himself, and turned his head away from being caught out by his own body. 

“Hungry?” John asked and stood up from the edge of the bed. He angled away from Sherlock to adjust himself quickly. Tight pants and trousers were troublesome when it came to matters below the belt. Kissing Sherlock was one of those things. He flipped his button down shirt over his shoulders, and straightened the wrinkles out of the front. John turned, carted his hand through Sherlock’s hair, and marvelled at the way that the detective’s eyes fluttered closed. John gave Sherlock a gentle kiss. “How about early take-out, maybe the curry stuff you liked last time?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened when John’s hands pulled away. “Green curry would be nice.”

“Indian food it is then. I’ll go place the order.” He padded across the room, neglecting to pick up his oatmeal-colored jumper on Sherlock’s bedroom floor that had fallen from his lap. He’ll get it later. Some deep, dark part of him, liked to see his clothing on Sherlock’s bedroom floor. That very same part of him, wouldn’t mind seeing Sherlock’s clothing on the floor either, eventually.

“John.”

John turned around lingering in the doorway. Sherlock was still sitting on the edge of his bare mattress. His eyes roamed over the debauched detective, taking in his swollen lips, messy curls, flushed cheeks, and two missing buttons in Sherlock’s tight black shirt with a sense of pride. The usual immaculate detective looked nothing more than he was snogged out of his wits. John did just that. 

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

Something that John couldn’t name flashed over Sherlock’s face before he stood up. The detective walked over to his chest of drawers. John watched as Sherlock paused, staring at his expensive shirts as if there was something fascinating. John partly wondering If Sherlock could deduce things from his own clothing as he did with others. 

“Don’t forget the butter chicken.” Sherlock’s voice startled John out of his train of thoughts. 

John huffed, amused. “Alright, butter chicken. Do you want naan too?”

“Of course.”

He walked into the kitchen, and dug into the salad drawer for the menus. As he looked for their favorite menu, John wondered about Sherlock. 

It looked like the detective wanted to something else other than the request for butter chicken and naan. He didn’t know if he could ask. Sherlock had said, repeated what he had told him, ‘All you have to do is ask’. But whatever they were, or getting too, did it qualify for questioning Sherlock about his aborted needs or wants? They hadn’t discussed what they or are not, with defining titles. Sherlock and him had agreed to be ‘All in.’ Sherlock said that his life was John’s, which seemed more like a marriage proposal now that John reflected on it. Was it? Or was Sherlock just stating something? Like his intentions before? At the most, it was a promise. Sherlock would never leave him behind again, and in turn, John couldn’t leave Sherlock. 

John hesitated in confusion at sight of three pairs of handcuffs, wondering how the hell they got there, whether or not Sherlock had pickpocketed all of them from Greg. He would have to ask later. Greg, not Sherlock. Questionable thumping came from Sherlock’s bedroom. John retrieved his phone from his pocket, and placed the take-out order. 

Moments later, Sherlock appeared out of his bedroom, wearing a white shirt replacing the black one. The dark curls were smothered to perfection. The only sign that Sherlock had been completely rumpled by John was Sherlock’s mouth, still puffy from their kissing. John fumbled through the rest of the order. His eyes flickered between the menu in his hand and Sherlock. John was torn between the two until the detective sat down at the kitchen table before his beloved microscope. 

He tucked his mobile away in his pocket. John didn’t quite know what to do with himself now. Standing in the kitchen, staring at Sherlock like he was a piece of art wasn’t an option. He quickly worked on his shirt, buttoning up to hide the white vest underneath. John did want something. He wanted to ask Sherlock. The question nagged through in the air, much like a large elephant in the room. John noticed something amiss when he watched the detective fiddle with the microscope knobs, looking into the scope.

“Sherlock-”

It was nothing new when Sherlock ignored him in favour of other things. Usually ignored him when it came to important things as well, but Sherlock had refused to be bothered. The latest example was Sherlock forgetting to pay his share of the power bill. He, or rather both of them, were distracted to find leads on Mary’s disappearance. This small detail, now more than ever, would make it all but sweeter. 

-“I don’t know what you expect to see through a microscope without a slide.”

Sherlock huffed at him. John met steel grey eyes with a triumphant grin but Sherlock didn’t seemed pleased for being caught out. Instead, Sherlock’s expression slowly morphed into the cold mask that John hadn’t missed once since they started talking back at the flat. Solemnly, john straightened up. His hands fell to his side as he stood with attention, preparing for a ‘domestic’. One that could end in harsh words, and him storming out the flat when Sherlock was in a snit.

Licking his lips, John stated in a hardened tone, “I know that you wanted to say something in the bedroom, but didn’t. I want to let you know that you can tell me...anything at all…all right? It’s all fine, of course.”

John waited with baited breath as his skin pounded. His lips buzzed, recalling their kisses. The air pulsed, charged, like every other moments when their eyes connected. John knew Sherlock had his walls up, but he was still hoping that Sherlock would say something. Anything at all.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called loudly, breaking the tension between them momentarily. 

Soft footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and the door leading to the kitchen creaked open. Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly at them. Her purple dress swayed as she carried in a tray and landed it on the empty side of the kitchen table. John’s side of the table was always cleaned with rules in order to prevent another chemical stain in the wood. 

“I brought you tea and biscuits in case you were hungry.” She paused and looked up at John. “I know Sherlock doesn’t like to eat during cases, John, but I stopped by the shop, and bought the expensive ones because I know you’ll enjoy them. Maybe you’ll convince him to have a nibble with his afternoon tea.”

John cleared his throat and coughed to cover the huff of laughter that bubbled from his throat when he met Sherlock’s eyes. The look plainly told him, ‘I told you so’. Remembering that Sherlock had deduced Mrs. Hudson had been showering them in biscuits because she had lost Sherlock’s engagement ring in a game of cards. John nearly started laughing again; his shoulders were jiggling with effort not to laugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away.

Gentle pats thumped against his back. John smiled at Mrs. Hudson as she shook her head at him. “As a doctor, John, you should take better care of yourself. I don’t understand chasing around London to solve murders, and placing your lives in danger, but at least you can drink your tea hot to prevent a cold. I’ll pour you a cuppa.”

John just nodded at Mrs. Hudson words as she moved back to the table and started to pour the tea. He didn’t dare to argue against his landlady/not his housekeeper. “I’ll be sure to get a cuppa when I’ll get back, Mrs. Hudson. I’m off to get our take-out.”

He walked into the sitting room, putting his set of keys and wallet into his pocket. Mrs. Hudson hovered in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen.

“So early?”

“John’s appetite doesn’t have a definite schedule unlike your tea delivery, Mrs. Hudson.”

John opened his mouth to correct Sherlock about just whose stomach was hungry in this case when Mrs. Hudson turned over her shoulder. 

“Don’t give me that, Sherlock Holmes. As I recall, you thought your morning tea magically appeared.”

“How was your last game of cards? Didn’t win back the engagement ring, did you? Judging by the biscuits I would say-“ 

She ignored the detective in the kitchen and turned back to John. Mrs. Hudson walked towards the fireplace. She shook her head at Sherlock’s dust collection, which covered the whole state of the flat. “Such poor manners, if I ever get to meet his mother…”

John smiled, hovering next to the doorway. “I met his parents. His mother was lovely, not a bit rude at all. It’s just Sherlock…and Mycroft.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded as she picked up random scatterings of newspaper articles from the floor. “Yes, he was considerably rude too, telling me to shut up in my own house.”

“Shut up, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t talk about Mycroft, you’ll summon him to bother me.”

“Sounds like you need someone to bother you, dear. 

“You are doing admirable job of it on your own,” retorted Sherlock from the kitchen.

John glared in the direction of the kitchen. His arms folded across his chest. 

“Sherlock,” he warned lowly, getting tired of Sherlock bickering with Mrs. Hudson. It was one thing for him to be a pain in the arse on accident, but intentionally…Yeah, never mind that, Sherlock is always a pain in the arse either way. Just some days are better than others, but there was no reason to pick on Mrs. Hudson.

“Thought you were heading out for the take out, John?”

“You keep behaving like that I won’t, and I’ll let you starve.”

An exaggerated sigh from the kitchen carried through the air. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson, no matter how predictable it may be-”

John shared a victorious smile with Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room out of Sherlock’s view, both knowing that was probably the best they would get out of the detective. 

–“And John,” added Sherlock. “Take my card, it should be in the bedroom along with your jumper.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a look. One that he recognized on many other faces silently implying that John was with Sherlock. Not just as flatmates or best friends, but prompted Mrs. Hudson to silently ask, ‘Will you be needing two bedrooms?’ even after so many years. Her expression resembled the time before Sherlock’s return, when John had told her that he was getting married…to a woman. He ignored Mrs. Hudson’s inquiring look, in favor of replying back to Sherlock. “Is my jumper still on the floor then?”

“No, I picked it up from the floor. Your jumper should be on the bed.”

“Before or after you changed your linens?”

“After,” answered Sherlock.

“Right then.”

“I’m going over to Mrs. Turner’s for a bit of telly, probably won’t be back until late.”

“Good bye, Mrs. Hudson,” shouted Sherlock.

John nodded at Mrs. Hudson, completely ignoring her happy grin and wink before she departed through the open doorway. Her footsteps creaked the wooden stairs. John didn’t move until he heard the echo of a light door from downstairs. He briskly walked through the kitchen. Sherlock was still sitting at the table before his microscope. The only added difference- he was actually studying a slide. John entered Sherlock’s bedroom, plucking his jumper from the detective’s bed, and pulled it over his head.

“Where’s your card, Sherlock?” asked John, glancing around the room in all of the obvious and usual places. On the floor in the corner. Behind his bedroom door. Underneath the bed. “It’s not where you normally keep it.”

“Try the nightstand.”

He sighed and walked over to the nightstand, talking as he went. 

“You know, Sherlock if you kept it your bill-” John trailed into silence when he opened the drawer. 

An unopened box of water-based lubricant sat on top of what looked like magazines inside the bedside drawer. John blinked at the lube, and he poked at the magazines. QX. John bit back a yelp of shock. Those were his. He bought them years ago, all because of Sherlock. Not like that! 

Sherlock’s death. John had returned to Ella. His therapist encouraged him to voice out words he never had said. He couldn’t say them to Ella. Storming out of her office in a wave of grief, he had stopped into a shop for something. He couldn’t remember what it was, and it wasn’t important at the time. He froze with a hand hovering over the magazines. Models on the cover each held something that had reminded John of Sherlock that day. He had purchased them. Under the cover of night and a glass of whiskey, he cried those unspoken words into the magazines, all while doting on Sherlock. That moment was never mentioned to anyone. Now, the man who inspired the purchase has the magazines, tucked away in the same man’s nightstand drawer. It seemed ironically fitting. But what the hell was Sherlock thinking? 

John closed the nightstand drawer and stared silently at thin air for a moment, debating internally about bringing up the magazines. He would skip over the part of that night, but stress the concept of his personal items and Sherlock should stay out of his things. John shook his head. It wouldn’t work. It has never worked. Ever. He called through the flat, “Your card wasn’t in there. Are you sure it’s not in your billfold? You know, supposed to be on you. I always tell you to keep your things together.”

“Yes, John. But if I carry it, it ruins the line of the suits.” stated Sherlock from behind, a lot closer than just from the kitchen. John whirled around, finding the detective in the doorway. Grinning at him, with his billfold between slender fingers.

John shook his head, forgoing his remark about the suit. Nothing could ruin the line of the suit on Sherlock. On other’s, maybe. Or point out the fact that Sherlock carries his mobile around, and that doesn’t ruin the line either. 

He closed the distance, plucked the billfold from Sherlock’s hand, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Where did you find it?”

“Under Billy the skull.”

“Why did you put it there?”

Sherlock replied as John walked by, going to the sitting room. 

“If any underclass criminals were to come in, the skull would be avoided.”

“Makes sense,” John remarked while he pulled on his coat. 

Sherlock hovered next to him by the doorway. He smiled at the detective, who somehow slipped on the blue dressing gown while John wasn’t looking. He had to have slipped it on between Mrs. Hudson’s tea drop-off and John’s hunting for Sherlock’s card. It was John’s favorite. How Sherlock knew was a mystery. John added that to his lists to ask Sherlock. 

“Need anything else?”

“We need more milk.”

“I’ll stop by the shop then.”

John sighed and paused, staring at Sherlock, who was staring back at him intensely. Grey-green eyes flickered over John’s features, pausing on his mouth. John licked his lips, and was satisfied when Sherlock inhaled sharply. Grinning, John caressed over startling cheekbone and pressed a kiss to it. 

“It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll be back soon.”

He left Sherlock stunned at the door and went downstairs. A loud groan left his throat when he stepped foot on the pavement. A black car was parked outside. It was true then. Mention Mycroft’s name and he’s summoned. John was set to ignore it and walk by when the car door opened.

“Get in, Dr. Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please comment/kudos and/or bookmark. Thank you!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, Discoveries, Threats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who has commented/kudos/bookmarked. Knowing that people are enjoying this story awesome. To warn, this is the chapter that has 'Mycroft is a bit not good' tag. I also borrowed a bit of Season 4 dialogue. Thank you to my beta Whitehart for cleaning up my messes.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 17

Forlornly, John looked between the black door and down along the pavement- his means of escape. He wondered just how long Mycroft would stalk him in the black car down the busy roads as he walked to get their take-out and milk. Was it worth the headache? Or the hassle? Ignoring either Holmes was a dangerous chance. Sherlock could annoy him to death, threaten his things, and potentially poison him. Mycroft, on the other hand, had other resources. There could be an off-chance that Mycroft would stop traffic to only stalk him. With one last glance at the pavement, John shook his head in defeat. He clambered into the black car, pulling the door shut behind him. 

The car began moving before John could fasten his seatbelt. When he heard the telltale click of the safety mechanism, John looked up, and met Mycroft’s studious eyes. John clicked his tongue. “You know, I thought we moved forward in our relationship with the texting. Doesn’t kidnapping me seem like a step backwards to you?”

Mycroft’s expression remained ever stoic, wearing his indifference as well as his pristine, ‘not a hair out place suit’ towards John’s attitude. John leaned back on the comfortable leather seat, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes never left Mycroft’s when as John asked. 

“Are you ever going to elaborate why I’m here? Because I really don’t have time for waiting around. Your brother is expecting take-out, and I prefer it warm. So, it’s either say why I’m in this car, or pull over. I don’t fancy having a chat in an abandoned warehouse halfway across London…again.”

“This is not a kidnapping, John, but a social call that required face-to-face interaction pertaining to my dear brother. We will arrive at your destination shortly. There seems to be a large matter of numerous changes in a small amount of time, and I am worried.”

John scoffed lightly. A half-grin bloomed over his features, entertained by the fact that Mycroft dared to utter that phrase at him. Even after all these years, the elder Holmes didn’t realize what John could understand of him. Both Holmes could read a person like reading a book, but ‘knowing’ a person was completely different from reading a person’s clothing. Mycroft had different levels of ‘worry’. Level one: he was the atypical nosey older brother, who had a problem with kidnapping…. and bribery. Level four John saw on the tarmac, the he was genuinely worried that he may lose his brother forever. 

This time, the worry was familiar, in the older sibling protectiveness. It was very same worry that John had felt with Harry, when she would bring new girlfriends home. He snorted, and laughed. John couldn’t help it, knowing now what he was on the receiving end of. 

“Are you seriously trying to give the big brother speech? Yeah, you can stop even before you start with that. What Sherlock and I decide on or do, it’s our business. Not yours, even with your cameras in the flat.”

“I am allowed to express concerns when it comes to my siblings, Sherlock in particular.”

He opened his mouth to counter Mycroft, but his jaw snapped shut, completely taking in what Mycroft had said. Siblings: plural, not sibling. Not even plain Sherlock. John studied over the older Holmes. He may not be as smart as both Mycroft and Sherlock, but by normal standards, he wasn’t an idiot. He was pretty damn smart. Mycroft’s expression was flat, very much like the nickname of iceman. Nothing could penetrate the surface, or moreover below it, but that wasn’t true at all. Greg, and somehow, Molly seemed to have broke through the façade. Time to use that information to the advantage, just like Mycroft would. Or even, ‘The Woman’, but John wasn’t going to talk about her. 

“Yet, Sherlock doesn’t share those same concerns for you and your ‘connections’ with Greg and Molly. Makes me wonder if you are really ‘worried’ or if it’s something else.”

John arched his eyebrow when Mycroft looked down at him with his large nose. Like he was trying to remind John that he was a peon, a goldfish, in a rather immense world. He knew that look, at least a similar version of it, where Sherlock was mentally calling him an ‘idiot.’ It usually meant that John did something or noticed something that he shouldn’t have, or he was in danger. It had to be the latter. Mycroft wasn’t trying to kill him, a jolt of shock crossed over his features. A sliver of the iceman’s expression flashed panic within his eyes. John only saw it for a second, but it was enough. 

“Sherlock’s not your only brother, there’s another one isn’t there?” John questioned in disbelief. 

“Dr. Watson, this social call has nothing to do with any fabricated-“ 

“You’re lying!”

“No, I am not.”

“Yeah, you really are and you’re awful at it. Your face has that look; I should know it well because Sherlock has one like it. Jesus! A secret brother…is your lot completely dysfunctional? Your parents, they’re ordinary. But the two of you…or I should say three of you. Is the other one locked away in a tower somewhere or something? Can he do the deduction thing too?” John asked. He held his breath for a few seconds, and then he added confidently. “Sherlock doesn’t know. If he did…he would’ve said something.”

Mycroft’s expression turned into a sneer, then soured, looking fully offended. “The deduction thing-“ he snubbed with a slightly squirm, completely mocking John’s words, -“doesn’t matter and neither does this topic of conversation. It is not of discussion now. With the recent discovery of Sebastian Moran, I had my people look into Moriarty’s criminal webs that Sherlock had years spent dismantling and completely destroyed.”

The car and Mycroft stopped at the same time. John glanced through the car window, seeing the pale blue lights of the Indian restaurant flashing over the pavement. Mycroft had news about Sherlock’s mission, the one that he left John for. John swallowed heavily. The lump in his throat remained. He turned his head, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “What about it?”

“James Moriarty’s body was never recovered that day on Bart’s.”

John knew what the other man was implying. It couldn’t be true. Not again. Sherlock was confident on the tarmac. Said that he was dead. John shook his head. “Sherlock said that Moriarty blew his brains out. I know that people could recover from injuries like that but-”

“Sherlock did not have time to take his pulse and make a phone call. Not with the snipers trained on you, dear Mrs. Hudson, and Gregory.”

He exhaled sharply, and then flinched with the car door next to him opened. Before John could demand what was going on, a brown bag was disposed on his lap. Aroma from the spicy curry drifted underneath his nose. “So you think that Moriarty is alive then?”

The car started moving again when Mycroft answered, “Not for certain. But parts of the web are rebuilding. Sherlock’s game is being played, whether he wants to or not. Do you understand the danger that he could possible be in?”

Scars on Sherlock’s back flashed through John’s mind. “I have an idea of it. Sherlock need to know everything. Moriarty, the other sibling, everything.”

“Even the lead on Mary Watson’s whereabouts?”

John froze in his seat. The collar of his jacket scratched at the back of his neck. His voice came out steady as he asked, “You have a lead on Mary?”

“Perhaps, should I also inform Sherlock of her whereabouts while I give the news about Moriarty and Sherrinford?”

“You’re not planning on telling him anything, are you?”

“No, John. If I choose to inform Sherlock of leads to find Mrs. Watson, what do you think will happen?”

John shrugged. Now, he was out of his depth. He couldn’t see what Mycroft could see. He couldn’t see what Mycroft was implying. It was starting to piss him off. He glowered at Mycroft. 

“I don’t know,” John murmured lowly. 

Mycroft shift forward in in the leather seat. “I can tell you.”

John waited in silence. He waited for the impending storm that Mycroft’s tone promised in four small words. 

“My little brother has stepped off a building in trade for your life. He has stepped aside to watch you wed another for your happiness. He dove into flames to save your life. He ‘allegedly’ shot a man for your wife, your unborn child, for you. He was temporarily exiled because of those actions, going to a mission that he was guaranteed to would have ended in his death. Do you see a pattern yet, John?”

John frowned at Mycroft. His fist balled on the leather seats. He felt each stab. The words were as sharp as blades. Each sentence killed a bit of him. It made guilt ache in his bones. It was one thing to think that he had put Sherlock through hell with the wedding; it was another feeling altogether to have it confirmed. There was an ache in him that related nothing to the guilt, but to the fear, and the panic that he had almost completely lost Sherlock. He never knew that it was a mission to die. That handshake on the tarmac, for a last farewell, was so dismal. It could have been the last for the both of them if that plane hadn’t turned around. His throat tightened from the inner turmoil, but his voice was steady as he spoke. 

“Are you saying-“

“I know Sherlock will step aside once Mrs. Watson and the baby are recovered safe and sound. Do you truly think that he knows, with utter certainty, the depth of your feelings once Mary returns?” Mycroft asked with a grimace. “Once your daughter is born?”

“Sherlock knows-”

“You chose her once, why won’t you do it again?”

“I would never. Not for Mary.”

“Not even for your daughter?” 

John couldn’t leave Sherlock. Not after everything he was told. He couldn’t allow Sherlock to step away from him. He would hold Sherlock to his promise, of never leaving him behind. 

“I-”

“I will say this plainly then since you do not see it. I will not tell Sherlock about Mrs. Watson, if you do not tell him about our conversations of Moriarty and what you’ve learned about our third.”

“You’re blackmailing me?” asked John, incredulously.

“Yes.”

The car engine cut out. John glanced outside, finding the car in a Costco car park. John’s words echoed within the confines. He jumped slightly when the driver door slammed shut. John watched the driver enter into the store. The silence grew as John thought- could Mycroft be right? Would Sherlock step aside once Mary entered their lives again? It was Sherlock who pushed them back together at Christmas. Would there be a risk of whatever he and Sherlock were moving towards disappear with her appearance? His ring was off. His feelings were gone. The paperwork was taken care of by the man before him, the same character who was jeopardizing them.

“Doesn’t your brother’s happiness mean anything to you?”

“His wellbeing means a greater deal more to me than his happiness. My people will handle Moriarty’s threat. Sherlock’s happiness is questionable…pleasing you isn’t the only habit he has, and I don’t wish for him to revisit those habits.”

“Are you implying that it’s my fault Sherlock was on drugs?”

“It is still early to be using past tense considering my brother’s supplies were only surrendered days ago. By evidence, he didn’t start again until after your-”

“Don’t say another word unless you want me to punch you in the nose,” John stated with a wide grin. 

Rage pulsed through his entire being. He sniffed sharply, trying to gather some wit for himself before he actually succumbed to punching Mycroft. God, it was tempting. Resentment that he had buried rushed forward, screaming at him to hurt Mycroft. Just as Mycroft hurt John by covering Sherlock’s death. For making it sound like he was to blame him for that death. For Sherlock’s missing years. For the wedding. For the exile. Even though Mycroft had sold Sherlock’s life to Moriarty in the first place! Nothing would have happened if Mycroft hadn’t betrayed Sherlock first! 

As intelligent as Mycroft was, there was a bit of resentment there, and he sure wasn’t using common sense or any other sense for that matter. Sherlock needed to know about this current situation with Moriarty. Mycroft wasn’t there in the flat, watching the taller man inspect their possessions like a madman chasing ghosts. Mycroft wasn’t there in person to see what Moriarty’s ghost did to Sherlock. As it turns out, the criminal consultant may not be a ghost after all, and could torture Sherlock again. 

That madness and anger that John felt was overwhelming. Mycroft dared to blackmail him despite the wrong he had done John, and implied that John would pose a bigger danger risk to Sherlock compared to the man that got him to jump! Mycroft was an idiot! Sod this! He wasn’t going to sit there and breath the same air while stare at Mycroft’s nose with an imaginative bull’s-eye the size of his fist on that smug face. If he were to sit in this car with Mycroft for another minute, his fist was going to meet that stupid, posh-looking face. He wasn’t going to make anyone a promise to stop himself.

John unbuckled his seatbelt. He gathered the take out bag in one arm and pushed open the door with the other. One foot was on the pavement when Mycroft spoke.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but after meeting ‘Joseph Mollet’, now known as Sebastian Moran for a potential case that my brother refused, he gave you his mobile number to reach him.”

“You’re not wrong,” he bit out lowly.

“We will be needing those numbers.”

John climbed out of the black car, peered down through the doorway, glowering at Mycroft. “Right. I’ll throw them out the flat window for you. Don’t trouble yourself coming up.”

“Dr. Watson-“

“I’m serious. Not another word, Mycroft.”

John slammed the door shut and stomped away from the car. He cursed Mycroft as he crossed the pavement, forgoing the milk in order to get back to the flat. He would get the milk later. But that was the least of his worries. He stomped hard on the ground with every step, ignoring rushes of people passing by. Mycroft was a bastard. Blackmailing him, using their newly almost-something to keep John from telling Sherlock what he should hear. About Moriarty. About the third Holmes. It could destroy them, as most secrets do. It could destroy their ‘all-in’ long before it could begin. 

He pondered what he was going to say to Sherlock. Or even if he was going to say anything to Sherlock. God! John had to say something, Sherlock would be able to take one look at him and just know that he was with Mycroft. How the hell was he supposed to stay silent about everything? In front of the man who notices everything no less! How was he supposed to look Sherlock in the eyes, knowing that Sherlock had risked everything for him? Knowing that Moriarty could be out there, but never confirmed by Mycroft. Jesus! It was a mess. 

By the time, John walked on pavement leading to the flat; he was calm, collected, albeit still slightly conflicted. He decided that he would come clean, telling Sherlock everything once the case was solved and they had some down time-usually happened after cases because Sherlock would neglect his body’s needs. They should tackle one problem at a time. John’s mental list so far: One; Solve a murder, Two; catch Sebastian Moran, and lastly three; tell Sherlock about Mycroft’s blackmail, about Moriarty, and the third Holmes. 

How much more could they take?

He placed his key in the lock, climbed up the stairs, ready to eat the Indian food that he had been carrying since the car park. His appetite looked forward to it. John was just ready to relax in the flat with Sherlock, kicking his feet up and watch a bit of trash television. He paused when he entered the flat, finding Greg hovering over papers on the floor, picking them up. 

John couldn’t help the flash of anger that overcame him. It was Mycroft’s fault, but seeing Greg, John couldn’t help it. He wondered just how much Greg knew. About Moriarty. About the third sibling. Hell, about him and Sherlock. Maybe, he knew about the blackmail. His anger aimed at Greg just because of his relationship or whatever it is with Mycroft. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. He couldn’t help but to wonder which side was his friend on. His or Mycroft’s? John opened his mouth to ask when Sherlock waltzed into the sitting room, relieving Greg from the papers. The questions would have to be later…along with everything else. Number four added to his mental list. John sighed and walked into the kitchen to get dishes for the three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave a comment/kudos/ or bookmarks. Thank you!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Food, Missing, Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, you guys know how it goes. Either real-life issues or writer's block...guess which one I had? Anyways, thank you for all the great comments, kudos, and bookmarks. Thank you to my beta Whitehart for cleaning up my writing tenses. These characters sometimes do what they want.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations. Cheers.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 18

The aroma of buttered chicken, green curry, and baked naan carried throughout the flat. It blended into the homey scent of Sherlock’s chemicals, burnt ashes from the fireplace, and the thin layer of dust. Any other time John would have happily inhaled the flavorful meal. He would have happily enjoyed being in their flat, with Sherlock, with the open possibility of more domesticity hanging over their heads. Instead, he stared at the plate in his lap, frowning. He was still moderately angry after his “conversation” with Mycroft, and seeing Greg in their flat didn’t help whatsoever. John couldn’t look, didn’t dare to look, at the silver-haired detective inspector because he knew what would pour out of his mouth if he did. 

A sense of accusations lingered in the air around Greg that he was on Mycroft’s side that Greg knew Mycroft was trying to blackmail him, even knowing about the third Holmes, and Moriarty. There was even the suspicion that Greg was sent there in order to persuade John to keep his mouth shut. His anger wanted him to leap out of red chair, cross the distance, grab Greg’s shoulders and shake him out of Sherlock’s chair for answers. In fact, the only words that John traded with Greg were about take out, and whether or not the detective inspector wanted any. He did not. He might’ve been pissed at him, but John didn’t want to be rude. Well, he hadn’t made tea for anyone, so, he was still rude. Did he feel bad? Not quite. His anger overruled his need to be accommodating. Spite in the small doses, apparently.

He sat in his comfortable chair with a sour taste on his tongue from one bite, stared at his cooling pile of food that he wasn’t hungry for. Sherlock flinted throughout the sitting room, his dressing gown whipped around behind him as he carried copies of the case files in both hands and pieces of naan disappeared into his mouth. The naan that started on John’s plate had vanished long ago, liberated away with nimble fingers. At least, someone was enjoying the food.

Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock, I only came by the flat to tell you that my superiors are calling the Izard case closed. There is enough circumstantial evidence to place the Joe Bloggs at the crime scene. Not to mention that he did jump off of a building with a infant, it technically does make him a murderer.”

“Yes, and your superiors are idiots. What about the missing footage of the jumper within the lobby? Do they count that as evidence as well?”

“The footage was reviewed, and forensics proven that it happen been tampered with. But-”

“But they are imbeciles!”

“Yeah, they are,” agreed the detective inspector. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. -“If you ever repeat that in front of my superiors, I’ll deny it. I brought you copies of all the case files. The Pruit and Mollet case is still open.”

“Not enough circumstantial evidence?” mocked Sherlock. John watched him as he crossed the sitting room with his long legs, stomped on the table, then onto the sofa, to pin papers to the black and white wallpaper. Joining the spray painted smiley face from a time that Sherlock was bored. “No desperate link with the murderer weapons? Or how about matching the typical ‘same place, same time’ trivial? Everyone loves that one, we see it on the telly often enough. ”

John rolled his eyes, knowing that Sherlock was beginning to work himself in a snit for the rest of the night, ending with him pouting on the sofa. “Sherlock, you were also confident that the Joe Bloggs did kill Oliver Izard. You said as much back at Barts earlier.”

“Yes. But there’s more to this! Can’t you feel it? I only matched the soil to prove what we saw on the footage. There’s absolutely nothing to prove that the jumper or ‘Joe Bloggs’ was in the flat with Oliver Izard, stabbed him and killed him. There were two other men on the footage outside the row of flats. Nothing inside the lobby! Nothing! Don’t you see it? You’re not an imbecile and occasionally you do prove to be a decent officer. You know I’m right!”

Lestrade sighed. “I can’t argue with you, Sherlock. But I also can’t agree with you. Just…if you don’t mind, could you look over the Pruit and Mollet case? If I hear anything from my superiors about the Izard case, I’ll let you know. They just want this to get quieted down because of all the bad press.”

“You mean making it seems like you know how to do your jobs?” Sherlock quipped from standing on the sofa. John glanced at the detective’s back, trying to get something from Sherlock’s body language. John caught movement out of the corner of his eyes as the inspector detective shrugged. 

“The victim being famous complicates things. Everyone is calling for justice. The family. The husband. Even the fans, can you believe that? For a pants model, fans? Anyways, after you left, Sherlock, we had people start camping out, reporters waiting for you to come back.”

“So, your superiors thought it would be better to just close the case, rather than wait for Sherlock?” asked John. “What about real answers for the family? For the husband?”

“Again, I brought copies,” Lestrade weakly motioned to the wall where Sherlock had tacked them up and was staring at the case files. Then he stood from Sherlock’s black leather chair. “It’s the best I could do. I have to get back to back to the Yard, paperwork and all of that before tonight.”

Sherlock turned around, affronted, and offended expression on his face. He sniffed as if he caught a whiff of something unpleasant. “Yes, your date with Molly and my dear brother. Do tell my brother to also mind his business, would you?”

“What?”

“He’ll understand,” answered Sherlock.

Knowing grey eyes flickered at John for a second. It was a second too many for John. Mycroft was definitely an idiot for thinking that Sherlock wouldn’t notice. He notices everything. He licked his lips; aware that he couldn’t lie whatsoever if Sherlock asked what his kidnapping was about. It would eventually mean that Mycroft would also tell Sherlock about Mary. He closed his eyes for a moment. Regretting having to lost Sherlock already, and again. He couldn’t bear to see his face right now. A new wave of anger came across him as well just from Sherlock mentioning Mycroft. He couldn’t stand to look at Greg either. John quickly excused himself from the sitting room, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Voices conveyed up through the sitting room, carrying Sherlock and Greg’s undistinguishable conversation. John shut the door behind him with a soft click. That way he won’t be able hear them anymore. Alone, in his bedroom, John could breathe, to gather himself. He may have had a struggle to hold himself together yesterday on the rooftop and afterwards, but he wasn’t going to fall into himself again. 

Dusk from the sunset carried through the small window, blanketed his bedroom in shadow. His bedroom was spotless, army-regulation perfection. His bed made from the morning before, because…well…he hadn’t slept his bed last night. Not a wrinkle in the blankets, the singular pillow set symmetrically by the headboard. The hamper, closed, tucked away in the corner from when he threw his dirty clothes in this morning. His chest of drawers, closed. The mirror inside closed away from the door. 

Not the way he left it. The soldier in him couldn’t leave a blind spot in room while he was sleeping.

John could taste his heartbeat. Questions pulsed through his mind. Could it be Sherlock? When his mad flatmate would poke around in his things, he usually left the mirror alone. It was like Sherlock knew its purpose and never messed with it. Unlike him, who disturbed Sherlock’s sock index and the detective fell in a snit the first time. His glance switched between his nightstand where he tucked away his gun after his shower earlier this morning and his chest of drawers. It wasn’t large enough for someone other than himself to climb inside comfortably. Maybe he was being absentminded whilst getting dressed this morning. After waking up in Sherlock’s bed, their flirting, the kiss…it was enough for him to lose his mental capacity. Yeah, he must have closed it. Finally, Sherlock had found another way to drive him mental. 

He shook his head, ignoring the need for his gun, and crossed the room. He fixed the mirror with the barest of fingertips on the wood. It swung open easily. His other hand hung by his side in a fist. The small rectangle mirror reflected the view of the closed bedroom door. John’s shoulders sagged. In the back of his mind, he thought, maybe, there might have been something. He brushed it off. 

Since he was in his bedroom, John walked over to the hamper. If Sherlock was using Greg to pass a message to Mycroft then he could to. He didn’t want to neglect giving Mycroft the mobile numbers that Sebastian Moran gave him, or he might make appearance. Neither Sherlock nor himself would want that. Well, Sherlock might, only if he punched Mycroft like promised. But he didn’t want to risk the chance that everything was spilled out into the open. He could stand the idea of losing Sherlock again in theory, but ideally, right now, he couldn’t. John would just be better off passing it to Greg or throwing it out the flat window like he said he was going to do. At least, giving the mobile numbers would help Sherlock, and maybe, Mycroft and his goons would be able to find something. 

He grabbed his trousers from two days ago buried underneath yesterday’s clothing. John rustled through the pockets. The first pocket and then the second pocket. Then the back two pockets. And found nothing.

John rechecked all of the pockets. He looked on the floor, in case the paper had fallen the first go around. He even dug into the hamper. Still found nothing. The hamper was turned upside down, John checking every article of clothing. All pockets on all trousers. The mobile numbers weren’t there. That something that was at the back of his mind earlier sent ice down his spine. First his mirror angled at the door and now this. Sherlock was so sure that someone was in the flat when they were at New Scotland Yard. Perhaps, he- they- weren’t going so mental after all. 

Or on the other hand, they could be completely barmy because it could have simply been Mycroft again and took care of Sherlock’s drug supply box. Boundaries were never a thing to follow in the past either. And this could possibly his backhanded way of telling John that he had the information. Hell, this could be another backhanded test that Mycroft did to test his loyalty to Sherlock.

He stared at the pile of clothes at his feet, considering calling or texting Mycroft of this new development regardless of his anger. Or possibly question what ‘this’ was all about. The blackmail, he and Mycroft can duke it out later. There was the last possibly that he hadn’t considered yet. Downstairs, somewhere, in the sitting room. Maybe, the note hadn’t made it to his pocket, but onto the floor, blending in with all the other odds and ins inside of the flat.

John quickly tamed the room back into the perfection. The clothes were returned into the hamper. The mirror back, and angled at the door. John glanced around the room one more time before leaving it, descending down the stairs. He stepped to the open doorway going to enter the sitting room as Lestrade exited. John was only slightly surprised as he stepped back, letting Greg to come out into the small landing. He couldn’t pass on the perfect timing. Greg could pass the message and John didn’t owe Mycroft anything. This was a chance to get some answers that he so desperately wanted to ask without Sherlock around. 

“Heading out already? Let me walking you down,” offered John. “Been meaning to ask you something.”

John ignored the befuddled expression on Greg’s face in favour of following the detective inspector downstairs. It was quiet without Mrs. Hudson’s radio. The landing downstairs was also dim in her missing presence. The cream colored wallpaper was a grey from the fading light outside. John stared at Greg’s silver hair; much like his, and in a year or two, John’s would be completely silver. They were too old for this primary school business. They were also much too old to be pointing fingers accusingly at each other. Though the visual did want to make John laugh at bit. John heard a snort of laughter from in front of him. 

“I was surprised to see Sherlock letting me in. It’s usually Mrs. Hudson but Sherlock had said something that she escaped for the night, gossiping about the two of you would…get…together.”

Before John could explain about his and Sherlock’s ‘all-in’. Greg continued. “he also said that you were with Mycroft when I arrived. Was he trying to get information out of you about Molly? Because I told him I-”

He shook his head, pausing on the last step. “No, it wasn’t about Molly,” John answered. “It was about Sherlock, actually. And Mycroft. Without sounding too cryptic…” he sighed, “what…” 

Greg was frowning at him. Arms folded across his chest. “Is everything alright? You know with”-the detective inspector pointed up at the ceiling, and then he mouthed, “Sherlock on drugs again?”

John sighed and shook his head. He might as well as get out with it. It would be helpful to have someone on his side to convince Mycroft to tell Sherlock everything. It can be another version of ‘Team Clean’ instead of drugs for Sherlock; it would be information for Mycroft. 

“Sherlock is fine as far as I know with all that. He’s fine as far as he knows. Had Mycroft mentioned anything to you about a third person? Or Moriarty?”

“I don’t know what you mean about a third, John. The only third that Myc and I talk about is Molly. Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What about Moriarty?”

“I thought he was dead,” answered Greg as he hovered by the doorway. His eyes narrowed at John questioningly. “Right?”

“That’s something you’ll need to talk to Mycroft about. Did you know that he’s blackmailing me?”

“He’s blackmailing you? What the hell for?”

John relaxed and shook his head. It seemed like Mycroft wasn’t just keeping things away from Sherlock. John was going to be the better person and not mess with whatever Mycroft had with Greg and Molly. It simply wasn’t his business. But at least, his friend wasn’t sent here, knowingly, that he was a part of Mycroft’s blackmail. Greg was as whiplashed as John was. 

“It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll handle it. I thought Mycroft might have sent you to remind me of it, good to know that’s not the case. Can you pass a message for me?”

“What do you…alright…” agreed Greg hesitantly. He trailed off once meeting John’s face. Then asked. “What’s the message?”

“Tell him, it’s not here.”

“It’s not here?” Greg repeated.

John nodded. “That’s it.”

“And he’ll understand?”

“Mycroft and I had a conversation earlier.”

Greg huffed and ran his hand through his hair. “I really wouldn’t call blackmail a conversation, mate. Going out for pints and chatting about sports is a conversation. Hell, even chatting about the weather counts.”

John shrugged and leaned against the grey-colored wallpaper. “It counts with Mycroft. It’s either blackmail, power demonstrations, or verbal sparring.”

His comment made Greg frown, “That’s isn’t true.”

It was Greg’s tone that made John realize what he just said and who to. That tone has escaped his own lips before, defending Sherlock. Greg was a man that who has seen Mycroft without his ‘government’ front, the man behind the facade. Much like John knows Sherlock. At this moment he knew he wasn’t being any better than the people who made fun of Sherlock. John didn’t know Mycroft well enough to make passing as such. Essentially, he was being a right arse, even if Mycroft was being an arse to him. 

“Sorry, Greg. If you could pass him the message. Appreciate it.”

The detective inspector nodded, and grinned. “I’ll let Myc know, it’s difficult to be infatuated with them. They can make you all sorts of mental. I’m going to be late if I don’t get going. Pints on you next time.”

The door clicked shut before John could counter it. He smiled. Even if his bank account were going to take the hit, next time, he would get Greg good and pissed. Then send him to Mycroft. He would have to record a video of it. That would be fantastic. John turned around and went upstairs. 

He smiled when dark, inky curls shot up from a huddle on the sofa and Sherlock’s eyes met his. His body warmed from the sight of Sherlock in the flat, in their home, waiting for him. The place next to Sherlock looked inviting. When he looked over and met those light blue eyes again, John didn’t need to verbally ask. He crossed the distance and sat. His side meshed along Sherlock’s. The heat from the taller man’s body just felt right. Like home, like the flat with the two of them in it. It was perfect. Greg’s parting words echoed through his mind. Infatuated. Was he infatuated with Sherlock? He had just noticed his attraction, admitted his wants, and now…was it infatuation? Was this ‘all-in’ too early to feel?

“Explain what Mycroft wanted. Tell me everything.”

“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please comment, kudos or bookmarks. Or all three if you want. Til next time.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversation, Truth, Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, it's me! Here's the next update. I hope you like it. Thank you for all the comments/bookmarks/ and kudos. They give me writing life. Thank you to my beta Whitehart for making this chapter look nice and spiffy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations. Cheers.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 19

John exhaled. He had agreed to tell Sherlock everything, but he did not quite know where to start. How should he start? What should he start with? Moriarty? The third sibling? Mycroft’s blackmail about Mary, and his ‘all in’ with Sherlock. Sebastian Moran’s mobile numbers that were now gone? What would anyone start with? What would Sherlock obsess with more? What else would John have to add to the investigation list after finishing this case? 

It seemed like they wouldn’t get some time after this case, everything would happen back-to-back. Another question was would they snap under the pressure of everything? There was the temptation to get the scotch out of the kitchen cabinet and pour himself two fingers worth, but the warmth of Sherlock’s body kept him on the sofa. 

“John?”

“Sorry,” he sighed. John rubbed his hands on his thighs, his pinky finger grazed against Sherlock’s thigh. He ignored the memory of that muscle underneath his hand at the pub where it had been dark, adrenaline-fueled, and heart pounding lust. “I’m just trying to sort out on how to begin.”

“Start at the beginning, John.”

Sherlock’s patient tone made John smile. 

“So should I start from when your brother kidnapped me?”

“It was hardly kidnapping if you climbed into the car yourself.”

John snorted. Sherlock had point there. “Alright, well starting from when I was in the car. Mycroft gave me the ‘big brother’ speech.”

“Which was useless and hardly warrants your body language when you returned-”

“I wouldn’t say useless, since I figured out that you have a third sibling, and all. Mycroft tried to lie about it. But you do have a third sibling out there, somewhere. You’ll have to talk to him about it.”

Sherlock hummed next to him. Out of corner of John’s eye, he could see Sherlock fixed his fingers underneath his chin. Long, pale fingers touched over those lips that John had kissed about an hour ago. A small smile bloomed across Sherlock’s face. 

“Well, that certainly explains a lot about my childhood. I’ll have to inquire more about my third sibling. Did Mycroft say whether the third was another brother or it a sister?” 

John shook his head. “Mycroft didn’t offer details. Having another sibling would make you the middle child. It would explain a lot of your personality.”

“Mycroft didn’t care for you figuring that out, did he?” Sherlock gave John a look and got a grin in reply. 

“Of course not, I’m an idiot compared to the two of you. But I’ve spent enough time around you to realise when you’re lying. He didn’t like being called out as a liar.”

“What else?”

If John was going to follow the direct line of his and Mycroft’s conversation, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. That was an understatement. Hell, telling Sherlock that everything he tore down for those two years were rebuilding, he didn’t know how the detective would react. He cleared his throat- and prepared his heart for the worse. 

“Since Sebastian Moran slipped out of Mycroft’s supervision, he’s looking into the rest of it.”

Sherlock let out a mixture of a sigh and a groan in complaint. “Get on with it, John. Stop attempting to mollycoddle.”

Sighing, John reiterated what he could remember from his conversation with Mycroft. He licked his bottom lip, stared out into the fireplace on the flickering embers, dying but still illumined the floor around. He was now tempted to get that drink he brushed off earlier, while recalling that Sherlock’s jump from Bart’s rooftop. They had both gone through hell, and after the whole ordeal, he was going to tell Sherlock that the man who drove him to ‘fall’ might still be alive. 

“Mycroft’s people never found Moriarty’s body on the rooftop, and some of Moriarty’s web is rebuilding. At least, that’s what Mycroft said. He also said you’re going to end up playing his game again, whether you want to or not.”

“Mycroft likes his dramatics,” countered Sherlock with a huff and a small hand wave, disregarding the whole notion. John jumped when his mobile buzzed once in his pocket. A tiny chirp followed seconds later from across the sitting room. John shared a look with Sherlock. Couldn’t be a coincidence. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, giving him a look that wordlessly said, ‘See?’ out loud Sherlock said, “Continue.”

“That’s it? Mycroft’s a drama queen and there’s nothing to worry about? Aren’t you concerned about Moriarty at all?” 

Another buzz vibrated against his left leg, inside his pocket. Another chirp announced in the sitting room. “We both know how his last interaction went, how it ended, how do you think we’re going to fair this time? Semtex again? Trapped underground?”

“Being concerned is Mycroft’s job. I know what Moriarty’s planning.”

John gave Sherlock a look that said ‘You are not going to do this again’ and said aloud, “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“You guess.”

“I don’t guess.”

“You do.”

Sherlock bobbed his head back and forth, “Well…”

“You don’t know. You do guess Sherlock; so don’t give me that crap. Moriarty is dangerous, and should know he could be alive, although Mycroft seemed to think otherwise.”

The detective snorted. “Dangerous? He’s a consulting criminal. His only power was controlling others. That’s manipulation, not intelligence.”

“He manipulated your brother, and you, and me. New Scotland Yard. The British Government. The jurors. The cabbie, Jefferson Hope. And probably countless other people that we don’t know about. There is some intelligence in manipulation.”

“You have a point, John.”

That certainly took John by surprise. “Thank you.”

“But you forgot someone.”

“Who?”

“The Woman.” Sherlock answered then he added. “He manipulated her as well into playing the game. Threatened to turn her lover, Kate, into a pair of shoes if she hadn’t played along.”

“Well, her death only proves that Moriarty is dangerous,” John stated neutrally. 

John bit the inside of his cheek. He had left, not wanting to know more, unwilling to open himself to the tension and heat between Sherlock and himself. When he was gone, Sherlock and Irene-did they? The woman was dead and jealously still burned where Irene Adler was concerned. She, of all people, knew before he did, because it was her nature to know. She also probably knew because she felt the same way as he did for Sherlock. She was the only other person to make Sherlock react that way. 

“No, it was her sentiment towards me that gave her a weakness in the game. Much like Moriarty and his own sentiment that made him swallow his gun.”

His mobile buzzed within his pocket again as John stared at Sherlock. “It is?”

“What?”

“You saved her, didn’t you?”

“What?” repeated Sherlock, his eyes were looking everywhere but John.

“Oh my god, you did.”

Sherlock’s mobile rang, the sound echoed in the sitting room. John’s mobile buzzed again. He snatched it out his pocket, read the caller I.D, and accepted the call. He spoke into the mouthpiece before the person on the side could say anything. 

“Fuck off, Mycroft!”

John hung up. He stared at the mobile in his hand, remembering the other mobile that he had given Sherlock. Her mobile. John didn’t know what Sherlock did with it. John turned, folded his legs in order to study over Sherlock’s expression. There was a pleased, crooked grin fixed on his face, John followed the detective’s eyes to his mobile. John realised that Sherlock was entertained with him telling Mycroft to piss off. 

He shook his head, resisted joining in Sherlock’s amusement and stuck with the conversation. “You did save her,” John stated conclusively.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to see her?”

“No, that’s ridiculous. Saving her life hardly permits a visitation. I see her often enough in my mind palace as a distraction. Always interrupting when I’m busy,” answered Sherlock with an annoyed grimace. “Why do you ask?”

John had to grin when Sherlock referred to her as a distraction in Sherlock’s head. He had to grin at Sherlock’s displeased expression as well. Then he pondered if other people they knew were in there. A part of him wondered if he was in there, and how he presented in that mad, genius head. 

“Because she likes you, and she’s out there?”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m gay, John. So is- The Woman. Hardly a match made. The last text I received was a wedding invitation. Safe to conclude that you don’t have a rival for my affection from The Woman or anyone else.”

“Is that your sociopathic way of reassuring me?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Is it working?”

John smiled at Sherlock, and placed his left hand on Sherlock’s knee. He curled his right arm on the sofa. His fingers glided in soft slow tantalising circles, relishing the heat, and the solid feel of Sherlock under his hand. There was a spike of pride when Sherlock shivered underneath his touch. 

“Possibly,” John answered quietly. He watched with fascination when Sherlock’s gaze flickered down his mouth then back to his eyes. His fingers tightened over Sherlock’s knee. “Anything you want, anytime you want.”

“You are the worst kind of distraction, John. A very tempting one and within arms reach. I would gladly fall for this distraction but if I do, our discussion would lead elsewhere. Mycroft had more to say.”

John had hoped that Sherlock would have closed the distance. He would much rather prefer snogging Sherlock than explaining what Mycroft said about Mary, and him, and the blackmail that could possibly tear him and Sherlock apart before any more progress could be made with their ‘all in’. 

“Yeah, Mycroft has found a lead on Mary.”

Their mobiles went off simultaneously. They both ignored it.

“Ah. What did brother mine have to say?”

“He didn’t tell me her location, but he wanted to use that information to blackmail me so I wouldn’t tell you everything else, and I would stay away from you.”

“And if I choose to pursue you? Mycroft’s blackmail wouldn’t have worked.”

“He was going to tell you, convince you that my feelings for you aren’t…strong, to make you step aside when Mary comes back and leave me.”

“That’s barely conductive at all with both logic and sentiment. My brother is slacking in his department.” Sherlock stated. 

John paused as Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes roamed over him, taking in whatever untold giveaways that were written on John’s face. “He wanted you to stay away from me romantically. Why?”

“He blames me for you getting back on drugs. I guess in his own way, he’s preventing me from breaking your heart.”

“And what did you say when Mycroft told you that?”

“I threatened to punch him in the nose and told him that he couldn’t come into the flat.”

“Really?”

John nodded. 

“Oh. Is it my birthday?”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be too pleased. I do believe he paid for our take-out.”

“Order more next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. There’s one more topic that we talked about. When Sebastian Moran came into our flat as Joseph Mollet, he gave me his mobile numbers in case you changed your mind about taking the ‘fake’ case.”

“Where are the numbers now?”

“They were upstairs…” 

Before John could finish, Sherlock bolted from the sofa. John watched as Sherlock through the door, and noisy footfalls echoed up the wooden stairs. John quickly followed. He walked through the doorway and was bombarded by the taller man in seconds. 

“Where are the mobile numbers?” Sherlock asked hastily. Large hands fixed on his shoulders, rooting him in place. John knew that familiar tone, it was the very same one that Sherlock had when he thought of a breakthrough on a case. John shrugged his shoulders; Sherlock’s hands heavy underneath. 

“The numbers are gone. They were in my dirty trousers before. I was going to give it to Greg, so he could hand it to Mycroft but they weren’t here.”

“That is interesting…especially when your mirror is slightly off from where you like to keep it. Was it moved?”

“When I came upstairs, it was closed. I moved it back.”

“And the numbers were gone?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s hands moved away from John’s shoulder. The long, elegant digits sank into inky dark curls as Sherlock stepped away to pace barefoot across the floor. John observed the motions, watched for any differences in breathing in case Sherlock had another ‘not panic’ panic attack. “Talk to me, Sherlock!”

“All conclusive data points to the possibility of someone else in the flat. Mycroft’s people are too meticulous. They wouldn’t touch anything they weren’t ordered too. I know that’s how “my things” disappeared from the kitchen table. I wasn’t up here at any point of time, and I personally know not to mess with the mirror. Mrs. Hudson and her hip can’t make it up another set of stairs without another herbal soother, and she hasn’t made any, otherwise the whole flat would have smelt like it. That rules her out-”

John grimaced, remembering that morning from years ago, when they first began as flatmates. He had a nightmare, and must have caught Sherlock’s attention because the next thing John knew, he had aimed his gun at the doorway, at Sherlock. He remembered his heart pounding, his hand solid and true, and cold sweat rolling down his spine. He had been close to shooting Sherlock. After that morning, John had angled the mirror at the door- in case he woke up with his gun in hand, the mirror would be the first victim. John blinked, going back to the man pacing in the small room.

“Doesn’t Mycroft have the flat bugged? Couldn’t he look-”

“Your bedroom doesn’t have cameras. Neither does our loo or Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” John was relieved to know that there were no witnesses of his own private time. Both inside the bedroom and out of it. Then he added, “So, what happens now? Someone was in our flat, what do we do about it?”

“Have Mycroft finish the job.”

John snorted. “I don’t fancy the idea that Mycroft’s cronies are going to be looking in on me. There’ll be no privacy.”

“Exactly! That’s why we should do all things that require privacy now before the cameras are installed.”

“All the things?” repeated John. “What are you talking about?”

“Sex, John. We should have sex.”

John could feel himself gaping; chin hitting the floor gaping. He walked over the edge of his bed before he could fall ass over tit. “What-”

“You know I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock sighed. With each footstep that closed the distance, John could feel his heart drumming. His pulse throbbed in his neck and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He could taste his lust on the tip of his tongue when Sherlock stopped in front of him. The low timber, posh voice carried in the air in a rumble. 

“Sex, we should have it. Now preferably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So? I'm mean to end the chapter there....until next time. Please kudos/bookmark/and-or comment on your way out. Ta.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proposition, Understanding, Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Should I feel accomplished at getting to twenty chapters? Because I do. Thank you to all who have left kudos, bookmarked this fic, and left comments. You give me writing life. I hope you like this chapter, in the next other ones, it will be getting case-heavy again. A special thanks to my beta: Whitehart. Ta! Till next time.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 20

He stood there- at the end of his bed, his hands, fixed on the bed frame, maintaining his ability to balance upright so he didn’t actually fall arse over tits from Sherlock’s very blunt proposition. John knew he was still gaping at Sherlock, knew that he should say something, anything in response to Sherlock’s demand of sex, right now, apparently. John couldn’t seem to get his brain and his mouth to synchronise. Shock- demolished brain functions made him put up a blank expression. No words were forming, the rare ones that did form couldn’t leave his lips, but his mouth continued to open and shut like an air-shocked fish out of water. A low exasperated sigh came out of Sherlock, and hands suddenly fixed on his belt. The doctor was not so shocked to the point of noticing that. 

“Oy, hold on, Sherlock,” John protested, freezing Sherlock’s quick hands from undoing his trousers as fast as he could. He held those pale appendages within his calloused ones. Well, at least his brain stuttered back on for that much of a protest. He glanced upwards, meeting Sherlock’s eyes and questioning brow. 

“Problem?”

Problem? Sherlock’s voice echoed through his head as much as the word sex did. The question or problem, here, was how could John explain himself without sounding like a complete nutter? There was an unreasonably attractive man in front of him, propositioning him for sex like it was an every day occurrence. Much like rain in London. 

The fact of the matter, was, John did not bed a partner every night. And he certainly did not bed Sherlock, whose exotic looks could turn a person towards their greatest sin. If it was a different time, Sherlock could have made cities fall to ruin or inspire paramount works of art. John would bed him. Right now. Sherlock’s willingness, and his offer made to John and John alone made his heart jump. 

John licked his lips. God, he wanted to accept Sherlock’s proposition. He closed his eyes, recalling the darkened office where Sherlock had undressed, with his pale skin on display. John had wanted to have Sherlock across his bed, trembling in carnal need ever since the classroom. Wanted to hear the composition made of Sherlock’s moan against the noise of the city, echoing within the walls of their flat. He wanted to be the only audience. He wanted that symphony, as he broke Sherlock apart with his hands, and his mouth to put Sherlock back together. 

But they couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to bed the man who might have his heart because of a mediocre reason. They both deserve more than rushed shag because of impending cameras and the lack of privacy. They shouldn’t rush because after everything- they’ve experienced, learned, done, they deserve better. John knew that much. If he is going to take Sherlock apart like he deserved then one of them had to say no. One of them had to keep their head straight. That someone was usually him with all of Sherlock’s other ideas. He didn’t know if he could.

A low groan escaped his lips. He placed his other hand on the bed. John held his head down and didn’t dare open his eyes, knowing if he met the intense stare, he would be lost. 

“Sherlock-”

His bed creaked. John’s eyes bolted open. In either utter horror or fascination, he stared at Sherlock as he propped on the singular pillow. Someone had been busy and stripped himself from his dressing gown and black dress shirt while John was trying to reason internally. The taller man was a sharp contrast of dark hair with vivid pale skin, black trousers against white bedding. He was a vision of light, the sparkling city lights from the window danced over Sherlock’s skin. He was a part of the dark shadows within the room, from the disappeared sun to the dark hair. Pale, violinist fingers laced with those curls. The abrasion on Sherlock’s arm stood out like a darkened line. He was a dream of seduction in black and white. 

Except his eyes. 

The only colour within the picturesque allure were Sherlock’s eyes. The swirl of blues, greens, and grey held magnetism. An intended look that John didn’t know Sherlock ever possessed, within that colour, was an invitation of fleshly need and want. All directed to John. How the hell was he supposed to say no now? 

John felt light-headed. His trousers were tight. His palms sweat against his duvet. His fingers fisted in the material. His knees were locked, and if they hadn’t been, John knew he would’ve ended up on the floor.

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked up at him, long legs stretched out, toes brushed over his hands. Sherlock’s body was a mixture of temptation and silently asking- Problem? As if it was John’s fault that they have progressed forward. It was. But for good reason, perhaps? 

Eyes roaming over Sherlock’s body, meeting the bright prismatic eyes in the dark, John was most definitely lost. But only for a moment. Whatever spell Sherlock had cast on him vanished right there. John was left with the sight of the man posed on his bed was-beautiful, but that’s not all he was. John knew just how to explain himself now. He climbed onto the bed.

John licked his lips, as his will was tested when long legs parted for him to perch between. Not a part of him touched Sherlock. John kept on his knees, not daring to push his hardness against Sherlock. He wasn’t there for pleasure, but to get Sherlock to understand. He didn’t know if the detective would, considering that Sherlock was moving to undo his trousers. He placed his hands on each side of Sherlock’s head, being careful not to catch a curl underneath, bringing their faces at an even level. John exhaled, meeting vivid green eyes from below. “That’s quite enough. Keep your trousers on.”

“Hello, John. I was beginning to wonder when you were going to join me. Are you going to help me get undressed?”

John smiled at the greeting. Sounding so polite and formal out of a mouth that promised sin. He shook his head. “Sherlock, I can’t give you what you want.”

Only then- did Sherlock stop trying to take his own trousers off. Sherlock’s hands moved to the side. Palms lying on the white covers. Green eyes narrowed. A frown formed on Sherlock’s face and the voice that promised sex turned flat. “I see. Being a man-”

John chuckled and shook his head. “No, I’m stopping you there. I’m bisexual, discovering that later in life doesn’t change who I am. I want you, so badly, Sherlock, I can’t even think straight.”

“You’re bisexual, not straight,” Sherlock countered with a grin. “I could have told you that years ago.” 

John snorted. 

“Making jokes. But that’s not what I meant. You’re bloody gorgeous.” He whispered. His left hand brushed over a sculpted cheekbone. He was tempted to place a kiss on those lips. He had always been tempted, and there would never be a day where he wasn’t. They would old and grey together, and he’ll still want. Instead of closing the distance, John licked his bottom lip, hoping to dull the yearning. He cleared his throat and continued; he had to get this out before he was completely drawn away like a sailor lured by song.

“I don’t want only to be seduced by your looks, Sherlock. You posing on my bed was amazing. Your promise of sex and pleasure is tempting but that’s not all I want.”

“Then what do you want, John? I can-” 

“Shut up. I want you, just you, because of who you are. It matters to me. I don’t want to take you to bed because of some stupid cameras. I don’t want to be seduced by your looks like everyone else that wants you. I want to take you to bed because you’re Sherlock Holmes and I’m John Watson and we both deserve to have that at the right time. I’m not having sex with you today and that’s final.”

“John, you’re being-”

“Sherlock,” John whispered sternly. 

 

His eyes connected with the man below him, charging the air full of whatever was building between the. Sexual tension, maybe? Lust, mostly likely. Love? Infatuation? Could be. John closed the distance. His nose tickled against inky curls, his lips landed on Sherlock’s forehead because Sherlock’s mouth was parted, silently begging to be kissed. John worked lightly down, peppering the pale skin with light touches. He whispered words into Sherlock’s skin. Oh, what has Sherlock done to him? 

“When I take you to bed, Sherlock, I will make you fall apart under my hands, under my mouth, and under my body piece by piece. Only when I’ve broke you in pleasure, I will put you back together again. I don’t want to rush this, not with you.”

“You truly are a romantic, John,” Sherlock huffed out with an accompanied eye roll, making John pull away and hover above Sherlock. Any and all traces of seduction disappeared. John grinned down at Sherlock’s annoyance, happy to welcome back the Sherlock who wasn’t trying to melt his clothing off with his gaze.

“You’ve known that for years.”

“Yes, I never thought your romanticism would be quite this challenging. It was entertaining to observe your interaction with others, but it’s torture to experience it. And I’ve been tortured. I’ve waited years to have you in the same bed, and you spill some nonsense about waiting for the perfect time like we’re both made of glass.”

“It’s not nonsense.”

“It’s been years since we’ve met and we’ve both struggled with ourselves to get to this point, and now you’re saying something about timing. It’s a bit ridiculous,” declared Sherlock. 

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Look at it as an experiment of delayed gratification then, yeah? Until the timing is right.”

“That’s not one of your better ideas. Why wait when you can have it today?”

“Sher-”

The rest of John’s remark died his mouth when Sherlock grabbed the back of his neck with a large hand, and captured his lips. Sherlock’s lips coaxed his into moving. John groaned into the kiss when his hip was pulled, collapsing his body pressing their chests together. His body meeting against Sherlock’s. Pleasure built in his lower body when Sherlock’s hips rolled against him, hands pulled at hips. John deepened the kiss, hands dove into Sherlock’s hair for a better angle, determined to taste the man underneath him again.   
Their talking may have waned him a bit but it was all for naught. Now, he rolled his hips against Sherlock’s. Driven by nature and the sounds that he was consuming from Sherlock’s mouth. He was so close; he had been so close before. But this, he could feel it. The tide of pleasure burned under his skin, bordering between too much and wanting more. John ripped his mouth away, panting. His mouth fixed on Sherlock’s elongated neck as the detective threw his head back and moaned. John harshly sucked into that pale column, earning more sounds out of Sherlock. Hands pushed and pulled at John’s sweater. In the same rhythm of, close, but not close enough. 

Long legs wrapped around John’s waist, pinning their hardness against each other. John felt Sherlock freeze underneath him. He moved away from the neck, pulled at the detective’s hair to turn Sherlock’s face towards him. Mouth open fixed, eyes closed, face flushed with sheen of sweat on the darkened brow. John followed the pleasure seconds later, thrusting his hips against Sherlock one last time.

John slumped against the man underneath him, drawing a mixture of an inhaled groan out of Sherlock. John didn’t bother to move, not when he was still in the mist of the afterglow. It turned out that he didn’t have had to worry about moving because Sherlock’s legs tightened around him, and shifted the weight. John flopped over the empty side of his full mattress like all of his energy had been sapped out, which it was. He wasn’t some young lad anymore. He stared up at the ceiling with his heart pounding behind his ribcage, catching his breath with his release cooling in his pants. 

“I haven’t done that since 6th form,” John panted, looking at Sherlock. The man wasn’t in any better shape than he was. “What happened to the idea of delayed gratification?”

It took the detective two tries then Sherlock responded in a raspy voice. “ Terrible idea. I waited. We didn’t have penetrative sex so that was the delayed gratification. Not good?”

John let out a breathless giggle as he navigated underneath the covers, feeling his exhaustion. “No, no. Good. Definitely good, but considering we came in our own pants, maybe not ideal.”

“I had to improvise.” 

“And penetrative sex was the original plan, then? Was it you buggering me or the other way around?”

“I thought you would want to take the more masculine position.” 

John inched closer, maneuvering and pulling the detective underneath the covers to join him. John sighed when the warmth drifted underneath because of Sherlock’s body heat. He curled behind Sherlock, enjoying that his smaller frame could still hug around Sherlock, encircling his arm over Sherlock’s bare hip. John buried his face against that pale neck, savouring the wet curls and raw scent of sex on Sherlock’s skin. It was perfect except the stickiness in his pants. They would have to clean up soon but again, John couldn’t be bothered to move.

He yawned against his own will as he spoke. “All positions are masculine when there’s two men involved, Sherlock.”

“So, you’re not opposed to it?”

“Buggering each other? No, I’m not ‘opposed’ to it, like I said; I’m not taking you to bed because of the cameras. We’ll get there soon enough in our own time.”

The bedroom fell silent. John closed his eyes and hummed deeply, listening to the Sherlock’s breathing with his. He felt the beginning waves of tiredness washed over him. Sherlock’s voice floated through the fog. “Tired, John?”

“I could use a bit of a kip,” John replied sluggishly. They had to get up but he was relaxed and sated. He’ll deal with it later, very carefully. John could feel Sherlock’s words more than he could hear them at this point.

“Then sleep.”

“You too.”

It was then that the bedroom upstairs fell quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well? How was that? Please leave comments/kudos/and-or bookmarks!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interruption, Explanations, Soho.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The next few chapter will be case-heavy, with some domestic fluff thrown in. Now, I looked at Google maps for the location of the place- but please send me a message if it needs correcting. Thank you for all the bookmarks/comments/ and kudos. Each one gives me writing life. I'm hoping to have this story wrapped up before the New Year with at least 40 chapters. Another thank you my beta: Whitehart, for clearing up my chapters. Thanks again!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 21

John jolted awake from the thunderous clap that echoed in his bedroom. His eardrums turned into silent hum. All traces of muddled sleep vanished as he glanced around, tense and ready, his finger on the browning’s trigger. John’s eyes took in every shadow of his darkened room. The only source of light was from the open door leading to the stairway. He glanced at his bedside table; the drawer was open. Where his illegal firearm usually stayed. The gun was heavy in his right hand. He must’ve gotten his gun half awake. It wasn’t the first time he had done it. It was always something that surprised him, awakening the solider in him, throwing Captain Watson into fight or flight, in which he would always fight first. Hence the gun.

What had startled him?

His arm felt the usual recoil after a shot, feeling his heartbeat pounding in his throat. He jumped when something warm slid over his hip. Glancing down, John found a familiar pale hand, and he looked over his shoulder. Sherlock’s hair was a mess, and had red lines on his face. Sherlock’s mouth was moving, but all John could hear was the silent hum. He shook his head. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The detective drew back with a visible flinch, grey eyes rolled, and his mouth moved into a frown before talking in silence again. John tracked the movement, picking up the words, ‘loud’, ‘deaf’ and ‘gun’. Sherlock’s mouth moved again, John only assumed that Sherlock was calling him an idiot or something of the sort.

John snorted. He must have yelled that last bit. “Sorry about that, yeah, my hearing is a bit gone.” 

Sherlock’s hand left his hip, and motioned to the gun. Wordlessly, John clicked the safety on and handed the gun to Sherlock, who took it gingerly out his hand. 

“What happened?”

There was a shadow in the doorway. Greg stood, his hands in the air, his mouth moving slowly. Every motion of Greg’s body language radiated caution, and placating behaviour. Maybe a bit of surprise or a lot of surprised. John easily put the pieces together. 

“I shot Greg? Is he hurt?”

John peeled out of bed, pushing the tangled white duvet away from him. He tried to lift himself completely out of bed, but with his lower half of his body pinned down, intertwined in Sherlock’s long legs, he motioned Sherlock to let him go. The doctor in him, needed to help Greg. Sherlock leaned over him, and shook his head. 

“He’s not injured.” 

He felt that wave of relief that he hadn’t wounded Greg by accident. It was one thing to shoot at the mirror; it was another to shoot at a friend. Or a flatmate. John followed Sherlock’s conversation, while his hearing faded in and out to follow pieces. Sherlock looked at John and mouthed. “ Shot at. Surprisingly, you missed him considering being in such a close range. You certainly didn’t miss Jefferson Hope and he was much farther away.” 

“Sherlock-” John warned lowly after making sense of the quickly mouthed words because as far as he knew, the ‘Jefferson Hope’ sniper was never found and the case was still open even after all of these years. 

He probably didn’t warn Sherlock as low as he should have or imagined, because Greg turned his head and looked at him with those eyes. Ones that considered him harmless before considering that he could also be dangerous too. John was a doctor and a captain in the army, taught to heal and destroy. John knew that Greg was a good inspector, regardless of what Sherlock said most of the time, and a good friend. Sherlock’s information didn’t look all that surprising on Greg’s face, but almost like he considered it before. Maybe, he already knew- it would explain a lot- how John still had his illegal firearm and no one has pursued the cabbie’s case. 

“Well, it’s a good thing I missed him,” John stated, while casting an apologetic glance at Greg.

“Lestrade, yes. The cabbie, no. ”

“Like you said, I didn’t miss the cabbie.”

“No, you did not,” Sherlock stated. His blue eyes met John’s, radiating warmth and awe. 

John huffed, shaking in head with the same fondness that he saw mirrored in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was still impressed, just as John was still impressed of Sherlock’s skills. A grin bloomed over Sherlock’s face, and John returned it. 

Greg interjected loudly, “I’m pretty glad I wasn’t shot. I did knock first!”

John heard Greg’s shout and the scoff that Sherlock made next to him perfectly clear. His hearing returned with a sudden ‘pop’ during Sherlock’s response.

“More like pounded on the door, and then barged upstairs. I’m surprised that John didn’t greet you on the stairs with the firearm in hand. No need to worry about getting shot now, John is disarmed, Lestrade.”

The detective inspector stepped inside, and then froze. His eyes now flickered between John, and Sherlock behind him. 

John felt his stomach sink. He resisted the urge to look back at Sherlock, to see what kind of face he presented. He wondered if it was still the smile that they shared moments ago. Instead of looking back, John pursued his lips together, in the pressing silence as Greg took in the scene. John ignored the uncomfortable pull at his pants. They should have cleaned up before falling asleep, and then maybe they wouldn’t have been caught together. He shook his head, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t ashamed. There was no possible scenario in which John would leave Sherlock alone in his bed, not after what they had done together. It was a step forward, finally in the right direction. 

Was it too soon after his and Sherlock’s ‘All-in’ for them to be sending out the “happy announcement” as Mycroft put it so many years ago? Was it too soon after Mary to tell people about them? Wasn’t everything too soon? They had accumulated years as friends, best friends even, but this…He had made some sense about waiting for the right moment before jumping into bed completely together. This, having sex, was one side of each other that they hadn’t seen. John didn’t want anyone to completely know, he wanted to have Sherlock all to himself, even if it was just for a moment.

Surprise echoed through the detective inspector’s voice as he asked, “Are you two in bed together?”

John cleared his throat. He felt heat starting to bloom over his face. Being in bed together would be the nicer way of explaining that they rutted against each other together until they dirtied their pants. Then fell asleep because John wasn’t young anymore. 

“Well…”

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock stated before John could pull one out of a hat and finish explaining. “I was tracking his circadian rhythms.” 

He did look over his shoulder, missing the expression on Sherlock’s face altogether when the detective peeled away from him and out of bed. There was a startling bruise over Sherlock’s pulse, framing the purple tinge with the paleness. It was obvious what had happened. For Sherlock to think that Greg wouldn’t know, just showed how well and new to all of this he was. 

John decided that he would have to say something to Greg about what Sherlock and himself were now, sooner rather than later. He immediately missed Sherlock’s body heat next to him in bed, and John knew that his longing was probably obvious. It probably always had been. 

As son as Sherlock, Mr. Sleeping-in-all-day-after-a-case, got out of bed, it was time to start their day. He read the clock on the bedside table, 1:20am in bright red numbers. He groaned, tempted to crawl back into bed and ignore Greg, to roll over and pull Sherlock back in for a bit of lie down. Begrudgingly, he knew otherwise. Once he was up, he was up. He yawned, stretched arms over his head and his back begrudgingly popped. He realised sometime in the night, he had lost a shoe and a sock, when a low whistle echoed through the room.

“Sherlock, what happened to your back, mate?”

The bedroom fell alarmingly quiet with Greg’s question. Silence hovered in the air as heavy as fog. Out of everyone, John had thought Greg knew what happened to Sherlock when he was going, since both of them were connected with Mycroft. Apparently not. It seemed that Mycroft wasn’t only keeping secrets from him after all. John glanced from Greg’s shocked expression to Sherlock’s still bare back, and to the floor, where the black dress shirt had been for the night. Wordlessly, John grabbed it, and handed it out to Sherlock, whose pale hand was already there and waiting. The shirt was gone in a matter of seconds.

John turned away from Sherlock. Moving the attention from Sherlock’s scars, John teased moved to his friend. “What brings you here, Greg? A bit early for pints, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of the both you for about an hour now. Are your mobiles around?”

John’s brow furrowed together. “They’re downstairs.”

Greg nodded. “Well, they are mobile for a reason…we’ve got another one.”

“Another what?” asked John. 

“Crime scene,” replied Greg. “And… a… uh… situation with it.”

“A new case, already?”

“What situation, Lestrade? I would understand your late-night barge-in to present a fresh crime scene to me since everyone is an idiot at New Scotland Yard, but what kind of crime scene has a situation is- ‘with it’ that is too great for London’s ‘finest’?”

The detective inspector glanced away from John, towards Sherlock and sighed.   
“We caught the suspect at the crime scene. He admitted to shooting his victims but he refuses to talk to us further without you there.”

“Interesting.”

“Dangerous, Sherlock,” interceded John. He didn’t like it; his left hand twitched at his side. Something didn’t sit right in his gut. No other lower class criminals had ever demanded to speak with Sherlock before. They would only seem right pissed when he’s involved, and the usual threats were made. 

“Why would he want you there?”

“Not enough data to deduce, and you know I never assume. This is new, and… so interesting,” answered Sherlock. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who padded across the room, and vanished through the doorway. “I call the loo.”

“Kind of difficult for me to say otherwise when you’re already in there,” John yelled after him. Sherlock probably ignored him again in favour of cleaning himself up. John was also looking forward to that, he did not want to walk around with pants stuck to his skin in dry semen all day. The bedroom fell silent after the last traces of his shouts drifted away. John glanced at Greg, and shook his head at the man. 

“Don’t give me that look, Greg.”

The detective inspector shook his silvered-head, with a grin on his face, his hands waving innocently in front of him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” John retorted sarcastically as he went about his bedroom in the dark. He rummaged for clean clothing. “You probably know it already, but Sherlock’s excuse was utter shit. Him and I…are together now. We haven’t said what we are but we are something.”

Laughter crashed throughout the bedroom from Greg. “You don’t have to explain. The last thing I want is an explanation; there are some things that I don’t need to know. Just-”

“JOHN! Stop gossiping with Lestrade! We have a case!”

A wooden bang echoed upstairs. John shared a look at Greg and crossed the bedroom, going down the stairs with an arm full of clean clothes. “That was his door. I better get ready before he decides to leave me behind again.”

Greg snorted at him. “He always manages to find trouble when he does. I need to head back now that I know neither of you are dead.”

John rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me, Sherlock is a magnet for all trouble. Where do you want us first? I’ll tell him when he’s out.”

“Crime scene first,” answered Greg when they reached the landing. Then he started for the stairs that lead to the entryway. “I can’t hold it for much longer and I want to know what Sherlock finds. Three bodies this time, more paperwork and processing. I’ll text Sherlock the address.”

“Alright,” John called after him. “See you in a bit then.”

He padded through the flat, and entered into a steamed loo. Fog from Sherlock’s shower clung in the air, creating rivets that trailed down the mirror. John quickly stripped down, turned on the still warm tap, and climbed into the tub. He scrubbed down, rinsed, and dried. When John was dressed, he opened the door. He didn’t flinch when he found Sherlock leaning against the wall across the loo, donning the usual belstaff and scarf combination. The light blue shirt on Sherlock took John’s breath away. He started breathing again when the detective held out his folded coat.

“Come along, John. There’s a cab waiting.”

John plucked his coat from Sherlock and opened it. He didn’t even question the presence of his gun. John doubled checked the safety before tucking it away in the back of his trousers. After straightening his dark blue jumper over the gun, he pulled on his coat, and followed Sherlock downstairs. They briskly crossed the pavement, ignoring the light rain in favour of the waiting cab. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address, and the cab joined into traffic easily enough. John sighed when they reached a standstill. He turned to Sherlock, who was silently tapping on his mobile.

“Soho? We could have walked there. Where are we going in Soho?”

“Yes, we could have, but it was about to rain.”

“It’s already raining,” John stated, motioning the rain splattering across the windshield and outside to the grey sky. “Where are we going in Soho?” he repeated.

“SophistiCats.”

John turned his head, looking at Sherlock. “The strip club? What are we doing there?”

“Crime scene.”

“Did Lestrade tell you?”

“Text.”

“Well, this should be interesting.”

“Three murders are always interesting and a suspect that only will talk when I’m present, it’s more than interesting.”

John snorted at Sherlock’s grin. “Contain your excitement, Sherlock. You’re worrying the cabbie. Let’s just get to the crime scene before you get us kicked out of here and then we really do have to walk in the rain.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine.”

John rolled his eyes at the beginning traces of Sherlock’s sulking. It wouldn’t last long, and would disappear as soon as they arrived at the scene. Three murders, and a suspect that would only talk to Sherlock; something still didn’t set right. He could only hope that the feeling in his gut was wrong. Even if the same gut feeling told him that it was wrong, trying to be wrong. 

Good thing he was armed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave a kudos/comment or bookmark if you wish.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime Scene, New Developments, and Jack Ripper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello all! Thank you for all the feedback! And happy pre-Halloween if you celebrate it and if not, happy day in general to everyone. Thank you my beta Whitehart for cleaning this chapter up. It's so much better now. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 22

John pulled away from studying over the last victim in the one-way street. A spread of people hovered near the police barricades in the light rain. The presence of the Yarders seemingly gathered a larger crowd than when they arrived. Perhaps the crime scene was more exciting compared to youth party days. It was only a matter of time before the reporters caught wind of a triple murder. At least- the Yarders caught their shooter, and Sherlock got to look over the crime scene before it was contaminated.

The three bodies, two men, one woman laid facedown on the pavement before the skin club SophistiCats. The darkened black door easily blended in the night sky, sandwiched between a pub and a sex shop. The golden scroll reflected in the lamplight, mobile lights, and the random number of torches. The music beat from inside oozed through the building walls, drumming the bass over New Scotland Yarders, Sherlock and himself. The black awning over the club rattled and danced loudly with the beat. In his younger days, John would have worked his magic happily across the floor, but now, all he has is a headache. His body protested as he moved from his crouched position and pulled off his dirtied latex gloves He deposited them in the bin and walked to Lestrade, who was leaning on a red post near the black doorway. 

“Same as the other two,” confirmed John quietly as soon as he was in Greg’s earshot. He leaned close to Lestrade and added, “Gunshot wounds. I counted six for the female. Dead about two hours ago.”

“And how many bullets for the men, John?” Sherlock questioned, his coat collar flipped upwards as he joined them by the red post. Before John could answer his question, Sherlock continued with his deductions.

“The female worked here, judging by how little clothing she had on at the time of her murder. Her feet were blistered from the heels she was wearing during her shift. She got spilled on her left side with beer. The two men could have been her clients. Too many possibilities with them, I don’t have enough data to figure it out...yet.”

John nodded over the dark skinned man on the pavement next to the woman. “This one sustained three shots to the lower left quadrant. He bled out slowly, didn’t die from his wounds right away.” 

Then he motioned to the third victim, the second man, on the ground across the road. “He took one to the chest. Gone before he hit the ground. Any ID on the victims yet?”

Lestrade nodded, he flipped through his notebook and read. “The female is Rachel Sulley and the man near her is Patrick Dubar. The other victim is Finnigan Mathews. According to Sulley’s coworkers, Mathews is her half-brother.”

“And Patrick Dubar?” asked John, pulling out his notebook for crime scenes. It was helpful to have references for when he typed up the case on the blog later. That, and Sherlock never quite kept track of the victims in any of their cases; it was John’s job.

He quickly jotted down all the names as Lestrade answered. “A new love interest, apparently. They’ve been together for about week now.”

Sherlock hummed, and John turned away from Lestrade, back towards the detective. 

“You have something, then?”

“The shooter’s motivation, spurred lover, perhaps. I’ve seen enough of the scene, I need to have a chat with the shooter.”

“We can take my car,” offered Lestrade. 

With that, Sherlock stalked away, with his collar upturned. John snorted and glanced back at Lestrade. “I’m taking that as a no. You better meet us there.”

“I’m planning on it,” Lestrade retorted then started bellowing orders around the scene. He turned back to John. “Don’t let Sherlock talk to anyone until I get there. Especially the shooter.” Then Lestrade added, “Or Donovan.” 

“Good luck with that, mate,” John chirped back. “I can’t even get him to tidy up the flat. I doubt I’ll be able to stop him from interrogating the criminal or causing chaos in your division.” 

Lestrade waved him off, and sighed. “I’ll be there. Go on.”

John didn’t stick around for long. He followed the distinctive coattails walking down the pavement. He jogged to catch up. When he joined Sherlock’s side, he murmured. “You know, Greg would have given us a ride to the Yard.”

“I’d rather not ride in the back of a police car.”

John grinned. In the lamplight, John could see the outer purple bruise underneath the scarf. He licked his lips and realised a familiar feeling down in his stomach. He shook his head, trying to dampen his arousal. The last thing he needed was to remember last night, and feeling the effects of it while on a new case. 

“Why not? Been in the back of one before?”

“Yes. Lestrade’s driving is still horrid from his time as rebellious youth. He’s extremely fond of those rubbish car chases you also watch. Now, the case, John.”

“Rebellious youth-… “ John mouthed quietly. That was something that he hadn’t known about his pub mate, a great piece of information to tease Greg with when he was good and pissed. “ Those car shows aren’t rubbish,” he argued back. Sherlock gave him a flat look, the one he has when a conversation isn’t going the way he wanted, John picked it up and sighed, “Alright, what have you figured out?”

They rounded the street corner, turned onto a busy street. Rain was lightly falling, streaking the grey morning. Sherlock waved a pale hand in the air as he spoke. 

“It’s interesting that the criminal would only want to speak with me when it’s obvious that the crime doesn’t merit the visit. Obviously, it was a spurned lover, but why insist?”

John watched as a cab pulled over to the curb. It was like magic every time. The cabbie never pulled over for him alone. It had to be Sherlock. Thunder crashed overhead, the finer raindrops grew into heavy cold splatters. John could feel the frozen droplets slither down through his hair, matting down the product he used before running down his face. He shivered when he dove into the cab after Sherlock. John slammed the door closed behind him. 

“Maybe he wants to brag about it?” he suggested after Sherlock told the cabbie the address to NSY. “We’ve had those criminal types before. Ever since the blog has been back up, we’ve had fans again, with your international reputation and all that.”

Sherlock hummed at him. “There are only two types of fans. Both of which I hope that criminal is not.”

Quirking an eyebrow, John asked. “What are the two types?”

He glanced over when Sherlock didn’t answer right away, found the detective in his usual thinking pose. Pale fingertips rested on Sherlock’s lips as the man in question thought. Even when Sherlock was all about the case right now, John couldn’t help but to be propelled into thinking about those lips on his from when they stumbled into bed together. It had been about time something happened, that he would agree with Sherlock there. Going at it in their pants may not have been what Sherlock had planned at all, but tumbling into bed was exactly what they needed. That quenched the feeling like he was going to go mad, and burn up from the overpowering sexual tension…but it was slowly building up again as the clock ticked.

Looking at Sherlock, John had an overwhelming urge to just touch him. His face, with those bloody cheekbones was easily within his reach. His sinful neck; maybe John could suck another mark into the pale column to match on the other side. On second thought, that action will be a bit too much for the back of a cab. Resting his hand on Sherlock’s thigh could satisfy him, like what happened by accident in the pub. John could still remember the muscle, the warmth that emanated from Sherlock’s body in that moment. John shook his head. He was going to have an issue walking out of the cab once they arrived at the Yard if he wasn’t careful with his thoughts now. 

Raindrops pounded on the cab, drowning out the light drifting music from the radio. The rain smeared the world outside into a wet, watery blur. Today would have been a great day for a lie-in. John could picture it now. Instead of them roaming in the flat attending to each their own, they would be together in the confines of his bedroom. Perhaps more of what they had started would have happened, preferably naked, sweaty, fulfilling things. Things that would have solidified the physical, as well as the emotional aspects of their ‘all-in’. 

But they were on a case, huddled in the back of a cab that reeked different traces of heavy perfume, cologne, and smoke. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, they were stuck in traffic.

With another fifteen minutes in the cab, and John mumbling under his breath about the traffic, the cab had finally stopped outside of New Scotland Yard. John tossed a couple of notes to the front seat from the cab ride as soon as the cab pulled up to the pavement. 

He cursed aloud when he looked out the window while putting his wallet away.

Reporters huddled around the outside, creating a circle of vultures between them and the entrance. When John pushed open the door and climbed out, Sherlock following behind him, the vultures descended.

Shouts came from all directions as John pulled Sherlock by the hand. Wait…hand- John turned around, glanced down at their hands interlaced together, wondering when the hell had that happen. Was it him that reached back to Sherlock, or did Sherlock reach for him? Hell, maybe they met in the middle. Even then, John tightened his grip on the larger hand and kept walking, shoving people to the side to create a path. 

Within the reporters, he could see black cameras, pointed at them in dark shadows, hoping that they would catch any remark about anything if John or Sherlock decides to open their tightly shut lips. There were several questions about Izard’s case, about the killings, even about Janine of all things. 

From the corner of his eyes, John noticed Kitty, and immediately slowed down while staring at her, seeing red. She was still working as a reporter after all that nonsense she pulled? John could not hold Sherlock’s hand anymore tighter than he possibly could, even upon seeing her. He muttered the mantra of ‘no comment’ over and over again as he pulled Sherlock into the Yard. 

There was a familiar face at the door; Lestrade waved them on whilst calmly shouting at the reporters to back off. How he managed to do both, John would never know. He relaxed when they crossed those doors, enveloped in the small chaos of the Met instead of the media chaos outside. Deft fingers slipped from his grip in the fraction of a second he let his guard down.

“Where’s Sherlock?” questioned Lestrade as he rubbed a hand over his tired features. 

“What are you talking about? He’s right-” asked John, he nodded over his shoulder to where Sherlock was supposed to be standing right next to him. 

“here...Sherlock?” he finished with a sigh when he spotted the large gaping hole of where Sherlock should have been. Sherlock was gone. He shared a look with Lestrade, both knew where Sherlock was heading.

“Damn,” the detective inspector cursed, and stalked through the Met. John matched his strides. Even before John could see Sherlock, he could hear the low insistent baritone carried through the air. Donovan’s annoyed tone argued back, with the usual attached insult of ‘freak’. They rounded the corner, John readying to Sherlock’s defense and side when Lestrade cut to it first. 

“What’s going on?”

“ Your sergeant here refuses to let me interview the criminal,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly to Lestrade’s question.

“You’re not allowed to interview the witness, you’re not with the Met.” Donovan turned to Lestrade. “It’s against regulations.”

“I am the exception. You see she won’t let me in to interview the criminal.” He repeats himself, this time throwing both hands in the air, rolling his eyes then glared at Donovan.

“Won’t?” Scoffed Donovan. “You’re damn right I won’t. He’s a witness and I’m finally getting somewhere with him. I got his name, we can start with a backgr-“

“He’s a criminal that witnessed the crime by committing it. He’s a murderer. His name is useless.”

“That’s enough of the both of you,” ordered Lestrade. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. “You know how the Met works, Sherlock. We need to check every angle, including their background before we interrogate.” 

There was an affronted scoff followed by silence. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s attitude. With that silence, Lestrade turned back to Donovan. “What’s his name?”

“Jack Ripper,” answered Donovan. 

“Go check it. Tell me what you find.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Silence befell the whole conversation when Donovan walked away. John could hear Sherlock mumbling to himself about this was tedious and an utter waste of time, and John could see why. Jack Ripper, it was either that is really his name or his streak of murderous activities had something to do with Jack The Ripper, or he was just throwing names around to take Donovan for a spin.

John thought there was a possibility this man was behind all those unsolved murders. It wouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing they’ve had weirder breakthroughs. And criminals weren’t known to be original.

“Shut up, Lestrade.”

“I haven’t said a word!”

John glanced up from staring at the floor. “Could be a fake name,” John offered. “Jack the Ripper, you know? Instead of killing prostitutes, he murdered a stripper. Seems close enough.”

Sherlock hummed next to him. “Substituting the harlot. Interesting.”

“He’s killed three people, only one being a stripper.”

“That we are aware of. There could be more. Let’s ask him.”

Lestrade’s hand held the door shut when Sherlock tried to push it open. “You still need an officer in there with you to while you interview. I’ll go in with you, not negotiable. And I think you would prefer me over any other officers in this building.”

“Excellent deduction.”

“Really?”

“Yes, there may be hope for you yet.”

John snorted. “Sherlock, the murderer. Interview or interrogate, we still need to get through the door.”

The hand pulled away from the door handle, and all three men poured into the small room. A man with blackish grey- slicked back hair sat in front of a small table bolted to the floor, hands handcuffed to it. His clothes were rumpled and stained. John wished that he could only see what Sherlock could in moments like these. Being able to pick your enemy apart, with just a glance. John took against the wall, leaned his back against the dark grey tint. His arms folded across his chest. 

Sherlock had his fake smile plastered on. John caught on that he was already in ‘actor mood’, and John was designated the role of the bad cop.

Jack Ripper spoke, his raspy tone carried in the space. “Sherlock Holmes, I was wondering when you would show up. You look taller in your photographs.” 

“So I’ve been told. You wanted to speak to me?”

“Asked for you, no one else would appreciate my efforts.”

“I hardly know of your efforts compared to your namesake. Jack the Ripper had killed more than three, and without a gun.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll tell you more.”

John glanced at Sherlock, at the real man underneath the actor. There was a silent message between their shared look. 

‘Be careful, tread lightly, and someone will die tonight.’ John only hoped that it wouldn’t be one of them. As Sherlock sat down with a fake welcoming smile plastered to his face, Ripper leaned forward on the table as far as he could and smiled with one corner of his mouth. It twitched and four words John hoped not to hear were uttered aloud. 

“Someone will die tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The new chapter should be up soon. Please leave feedback on your way out! Ta.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Story time ,Sassy, Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There is going to be a lot of updating today, just to try get Chapter 27 jumped started in my head. Don't you hate it when you're working on one story and another idea pops into your head?- Well, that's me now. Like I said before, I'm hoping to wrapping up this fic, but trying not to rush it at the same time. Thank you to all the feedback. Another thank to my beta- Whitehart, who knocked out five chapterS over the past weekend!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 23

The chair creaked under Sherlock’s weight when he shifted forward towards the table. John resisted telling Sherlock not too move to close to the criminal, but the urge was still there, broiling as the ‘Jack Ripper’ leaned even closer. He wanted to meet Sherlock’s eyes when Jack grinned boldly, almost pleased with himself now that he had Sherlock interested. 

John frowned, thinking that he wouldn’t have liked the man even if they had met under better circumstances. There was something about him that seemed off. 

He flicked a glance at Lestrade, who was leaning on the other wall, mimicking John’s body language. Even matching the frown on his face. Maybe they were both bad cop to Sherlock’s fake hospitality. He shouldn’t be surprised that Lestrade came to the same conclusion that John did. Sherlock’s a prick.

“Before I give the game away. Tell me what this is, Mr. Holmes.” Ripper said while he gestured as far as his bound hands could.

“Interrogation? An interview? A friendly chat? Take your pick. You were the one who asked for an audience. I’m free to leave at any given time unlike yourself, though murdering three people does that.”

Jack Ripper laughed boldly, and threw his head back. His blackish grey hair reflected the bright lights in the room like dull silver. Laughter bounced around the room as if Sherlock’s reply was the funniest joke he had heard in months. When he was finished, the grin was plastered back on his face. 

“My wife always thought you were clever…She was a big follower of your gay blog. Said it was romantic. She also said it helped that you were easy on the eyes to make up for your arsehole personality. Want to know what I think?” 

“Not really, but I’m assuming you will tell me anyway.” Sherlock interrupted him for a moment before Ripper continued.

“I think she’s full of shite. It seems the legend is always greater than the person. That’s all you have? ‘A friendly chat?’ Disappointing, really.”

“We thought the idea was you telling us a story,” interrupted John with a stern, get-to-it tone. He shifted when the man turned to him with a sneer. John arched his eyebrows. He ignored the attempted eye contact from the suspect, instead focused on what he was seeing at the suspect’s hairline and added, “not your opinion of disappointment on your hair implants.”

A snort was quickly covered by a cough. Lestrade’s face was blushing from the pressure of a stifled laugh. The man slowly turned his head away from John and back to Sherlock. His body was still as a rock, and it was difficult to tell if he was breathing or not. 

“My wife, Megan, thought you were a bit short for her. It’s a very unattractive trait in a man.”

John roamed his eyes over the criminal, estimating in his head the other man’s height Jack Ripper was only a wee bit taller than himself. Essentially, his wife would have found him unattractive as well. Oh, how badly John wanted to say that aloud, but he knew it was only going to make him look insecure. It wasn’t like John had turned into an insecure little baby at the mention of his height, but one can occasionally be sensitive about it.

“We are done here, Lestrade. You have witnesses, and your criminal for your case,” stated Sherlock, breaking the silence with the chair scraping against the floor. Sherlock’s belstaff swirled behind him as he headed for the door. 

John pushed off the wall, following. “Good luck on your defense.”

“No! You can’t leave yet!” 

His shout overlapped with the slam of his hands on the table, jarring the handcuffs that kept him pinned. The chair slapped against the floor when the man leapt to his feet. “You can’t leave.”

John turned, watching the suspect as he settled down. Lestrade walked over and picked up the fallen chair before settling against the wall again. The man didn’t thank Lestrade, but slowly sat down, staring at Sherlock’s back. John clenched his hands into fists, flexing his appendages at the same rhythm as his heart. Jack’s grey eyes still radiated madness underneath the presentable surface.

“Sherlock…”John muttered lowly in warning, hoping to detour Sherlock from the question. With one word he hoped to convey ‘just walk out of the dim room and leave the arse to his fate. 

Sherlock ignored him, turned around and asked, “Why not?”

“You never answered my question. Tell me what this is, Mr. Holmes.”

“I believe I answered that question for you.”

“You tried. You were wrong.”

“A distraction.”

“Oh? A distraction from what?” asked Ripper mockingly. The man’s grey eyes glinted at Sherlock like gunmetal in the moonlight.

“Your wife’s murder.”

The suspect laughed again. The irons around his wrist rattled ever so slightly as he shifted in the wooden seat, clapping his hands. 

“Distraction from my wife’s murder?” he repeated in a tone of disbelief. “Why?”

John noticed right away that he didn’t deny it like any normal person would with those accusations and wasn’t met with either tears or yelling like a rave lunatic. Or threats of bodily harm to Sherlock. Instead, the suspect with the fake name just sat there, waited again for Sherlock to answer his question. And Sherlock did. 

“Because men like you love the prospect of power. Thrive on taking control of others. You work at a high rate company judging by your suit and watch. I can easily conclude that you are in a position of power in your work, therefore have control over your employees. That fixes in your urges at work but at home, that want of control is severely lost. You set your wife to be murdered as we speak, but not with the motivation of love since your wedding band has been removed but indention line still remains, so it had to be recently removed-“ 

Jack unconsciously touched the skin around his ring finger where his wedding ring would be, and gave it a slight scratch. When he noticed Sherlock had paused to stare at his hands, he pulled them under the table. Sherlock turned a little more to face him straight on and continued.

“You most likely struggled to remove it, having gained about twenty pounds since the placement of the ring. You have dermatitis around the area, and it’s still healing, so you’ve only removed your wedding ring…two days ago at most, which makes me believe you found out about her affair that same day. You are not scorned; your eyes are red from your drinking problem. There are only three reasons to drink: depression, guilt, or regret, take your pick. Either way, your drinking problem has direct correlation with your erectile dysfunction, which I’m guessing, that’s why your wife started her affair. It makes you feel emasculated, and out of control, you thought that killing her would fix your problems. Unfortunately, you’re mistaken in that aspect because you’ve created more problems for yourself. Am I wrong?”

The suspect slumped towards the table, slack-jawed from the verbal punch that Sherlock delivered. 

It was brilliant to see the smug expression gone, and it pleased John in more ways than one. “As always,” he whispered to Sherlock lowly, out of the earshot of Lestrade. He knew that Sherlock would fill in the word, ‘brilliant’ in his meaning. 

“Perhaps, you’re not a legend after all.”

“No,” Sherlock remarked confidently. His grey eyes hardened, glaring at the man. “If you had read the gay romanticised blog, you would have known that I’m not for skeptics.” 

“My wife was having an affair for seven years under my nose.”

“And out of your control. Which victim was it, the harlot? Or the one of the two men?”

Jack Ripper scoffed, the insufferable grin plastered back on his face once more. “Does it matters? She’s dead anyway.”

“She’s-”

“You still don’t know what this is, do you?” spat the suspect. “This is only a small part of it.”

“Then tell me, but first your wife’s full name. Megan-”

“Piss off. I’m not telling you shite. I’m not going to help you save that bitch.”

John stepped forward, wedging himself in the distance between Sherlock and the criminal. Thinking that he could stop Sherlock from making another scathing deduction as a shield, regardless of the fact that Sherlock was taller than him, and could easily see over his head. Luckily, Lestrade seemed to think of the same. He took at the criminal’s side, and took over the interrogation. 

“I know what you’re feeling myself. I had a bit of same problem with my ex-wife-”

“She was definitely a harlot,” muttered Sherlock, and John covered it with a cough. He glared over his shoulder at Sherlock, telling him wordlessly to shut it. By some miracle, Sherlock received that message. Lestrade pressed forward through John’s well-timed coughs. 

“-But I didn’t want to kill her or have her killed. You don’t either. When you marry someone, build a life with someone, and she betrays you, it’s difficult to put it past you, but you work at it. Then someday you can look back and let it go.”

“Fuck your ex-wife and your preaching. I want her to suffer,” spat the suspect. “She doesn’t deserve to be happy without me! I gave her everything!”

The room fell silent. John couldn’t help but to think that Sherlock was wrong. It didn’t happen often, but it still happened. The man’s motivation eventually turned into wanting control of his life, of his marriage but it stemmed from love. Only out of the deepest of loves, can the deepest of hate fester into a bleeding wound. The love for his wife, and her betrayal festered into him taking three lives, a mistake that he will probably have to pay for with his life. Somewhere in there, maybe, just maybe, the man was still in love with her despite everything. 

“You don’t want her blood on your hands,” John murmured simply. “The affair was an error on her part, not yours. You don’t have to add another death to your toll. Give us her full name and we can go about things the legal way. Right, Detective Inspector?” John asked, casting a glance towards Lestrade, who nodded. 

“Cooperate with us, and we’ll do the same.”

“Don’t tell me what I want! With her death, she will never-” the man stopped, gaping into the air. “She deserves it! She knew what she was getting into when she married me. Deep down she never accepted what I am!“

John shook his head. “We’re done here.”

He walked around Sherlock, and yanked the door open. He went to shut it to only discover that Lestrade and Sherlock were behind him, with Sherlock slamming it shut when they were out in the corridor. John could hear phones ringing, blending in with multiple voices inside the Met. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, drying his sweaty palms. 

It seemed that the man was so blinded by his anger that he didn’t care what would happen to him anymore. He would rather see his wife dead rather than to talk to her again. Hell, Mary shot Sherlock, lied about who she was, and he still talked to her about their relationship… eventually. He got over the urge to shout, and shoot things. He would rather have Mary getting a leg over than to shoot Sherlock in the first place. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been an hour and he’s not going to tell us anything at this point. He’s so angry at her, he would rather see her dead.” John turned to Sherlock, and motioned at the door. “Did you deduce anything that would help us identify his wife?” 

“No, there’s too little information. There is the possibility that she is already dead.”

“Christ. What can we do then?” he asked aloud, not knowing if he was asking himself or someone else. “That arsehole in there, murdered three people and maybe a fourth.”

“There’s another person, helping him,” answered Sherlock. “His wife wasn’t dead when he was brought in, and he wasn’t planning on killing her himself. Someone was going to do the dirty work for him... or already did the dirty work for him while we were in there.”

“She’s not dead then?” 

“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed, like their questions were physically taxing him. “Did you both not hear what I said? She could be dead, but he’s mixed up his past and present tenses, and he said he wouldn’t help us ‘save that bitch’. Why would she need saving if she was already dead? An obvious giveaway that she isn’t dead yet. Maybe there was some kind of signal that he was waiting for, in order to know that the deed was done. So, no, she’s not currently dead as far as he knows.”

“So, we go back in and ask him?”

“Perhaps with a bit more tact, Lestrade.” 

Sherlock jolted next to him, pale hands flew up to his head, froze for a second, like a marble statue that John could imagine finding in a museum. Then blinked, returning back to life. “Let’s go inside again. Coming, John?”

John only nodded, wondering what the hell that was all about. He shared a look with Lestrade when Sherlock yanked open the door, and stalked inside the grey room once more. It seemed Lestrade was as confused as he was. But they both followed anyway. 

“It’s story time,” stated Sherlock, as if he was answering a question. “Tell it.”

“Only if they leave,” the man gestured to John and Lestrade at Sherlock’s side. 

John snorted, “That’s not happening.”

“They will only leave if you tell them your wife’s full name and her location.”

The suspect glanced at John and then Lestrade before returning his glance back to Sherlock. He shook his head. “I’m not saying a damn thing about her.”

“Fear has a distinctive features on a person’s face and the body is hardwired to react to it with chemicals fixed in our biology. It’s a horrible mechanism that can betray even the bravest of men. Your face, right now, is radiating fear, no longer that false bravado you portrayed earlier. No, I believe that you’re being cohered into relaying this message, the punishment of failure would be your life. Am I wrong?”

“I’m dead anyway. I killed three people!”

“Yes, you are. But you can choose what kind of death, payment for your crimes or payment for failure. Your life or your wife’s death?”

“I-”

“Choose! Or I walk out of this room and leave you to your fate,” Sherlock stepped towards the door. The man sprung from his seat again.

“One condition!”

“You’re not in the position to negotiate,” stated Lestrade, earning a panicked look from the suspect as he threw himself on the table, trying to reach for Sherlock’s Belstaff. “I’ll only tell you the story if you stay in this room with me. No one else can hear it.”

“Sherlock, I don’t-“

“Done. Her address and name.”

“Megan Hageman. 2343 Battery Road! She should be home. They were supposed to make it look like a break in! I haven’t heard anything!”

“I know.” Sherlock turned around. “You heard him Lestrade. Get your best officers on it. John, go with him.”

“Sher-”

“Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave feedback on your way out! Thank you.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime Scene, Unhappiness, Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's another update! Yay! Thank you to my awesome beta Whitehart, as usual.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 24

John simmered in the passenger seat as Lestrade drove, siren blared through traffic to get to where Megan Hageman was going to be murdered, if she hadn’t been already. The car weaved through unbelievably congested roads for this time in the night. Brakes shrilled against the blacktop, almost throwing John out of the windshield, stopping when cars slowed ahead of them, and traffic going into a standstill. Lestrade cursed next to him, blurting a whole string of curses that John had heard before. When they bet on games at the pub, not with money, but in drinks, which often made for a rough morning. 

John accidently bit his tongue and held his breath when traffic started to part, and the car wedged between narrow spaces growing at a rapid speed. When the car was free from traffic, the view outside began to blur. John knew that they were in a rush but Christ! He didn’t want to die. Lestrade’s madman driving skills may be the end of him. He should not mention this to Sherlock and give the detective the satisfaction of being right about his deductions on Lestrade’s driving. 

He was still livid at Sherlock from what happened back at the Yard. 

He was pushed out, grabbed by the arm, along with Lestrade from the interrogation room, the thick wooden door slammed in his face in dismissal. Apparently, there was no room for argument. No time to say, ‘this could be a terrible idea’. He wanted to stay outside in the hallway to monitor the situation. Seconds later, the door creaked open, and was when Sherlock waved him off…again. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Sherlock also implied that he was a ‘distraction’ (not the good kind of distraction like when they were in the flat). Sherlock even accused him of being more idiotic than usual and ignored John’s protest about going with Lestrade. He then slammed the door in John’s face for the second time, leaving the doctor reeling from Sherlock’s frigidness and John’s own anger. In the end, John went from tagging along with one madman, to another, namely Lestrade at the wheel.

“John, mate, once we get there, you’ll have to stay inside the car while I secure the scene.”

“I know. This isn’t the first time I’ve tagged along. I know the drill. I have no idea why I’m here though. I can’t help, police matters and all that.”

“If you joined the Yard, it wouldn’t be a problem,” Lestrade joked with a grin.

John rolled his eyes and grinned back. “It might be a problem for you. Instead of Sherlock going into the Met stealing paperwork, he would have me do it and bring them home to him.”

“You got a point there. Look, just don’t run off like him, yeah? It’s different when both of you are here and we have back up with more officers like back at the row of flats. But for now, it’s just the two of us. I have another team en route but till then I need you to watch my back.”

“You do remember I spent some time in a tact team? In Afghanistan? I’m not exactly helpless.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking that you’re the exact opposite,” Lestrade retorted with a side-glance. “Off the record here, but did you…you know…” Lestrade mimicked a gun with his had pointed at his forehead, “offed Jefferson Hope with just your handgun?”

John cleared his throat and shifted in the seat. His gun dug into his lower back. “It wasn’t a difficult shot,” he murmured.

“Bloody hell, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have made that shot.”

“Probably not.”

“Oy. You missed this morning.”

“Sorry about that,” sighed John with traces of guilt. “You’re lucky I did. I could’ve killed you.”

“Do you do that often? Shoot at random things when you’re half-awake?”

John shook his head. “Not typically. It’s gotten worse since-”

He didn’t want to mention Moriarty or explain that someone had broken into their flat. Or explain that it was the first time that John had grabbed his gun since returning to Baker Street. While he was with Mary, his night shooting had gotten progressively worse. Her solution was to take his gun away, and complained about his lack of self-control. Ironically enough, John felt more in control of himself with the hard metal in his hand rather than without it. It was probably stress that made him react in his sleep from nightmares of the war. Or the stress of this case that kept building and building and, eventually everything was going to crumble. Including him and Sherlock. He was waiting for everything normal to fall to pieces, to be thrown into chaos. John chose not to elaborate, and thankfully Lestrade understood his silence for his unwillingness to explain further. 

The car dove into silence from both the lack of conversation and when Lestrade switched off the siren. John’s ears were ringing inside his head. The car slowly rolled onto Battery Road before it came to a stop outside a brick white townhouse. Green ivy crawled up the right side of the house, bringing colour to a place that looked so deadened. Well, so did the lights from the car. The bold black numbers 2343 stood out on the white door, cracked ajar. Even from the street, John could see the nearest window was obviously shattered; glass fragments clung onto the white frame in desperation. It definitely looked like a break-in but both men knew the scene was staged. It was premeditated murder.

“Christ, we could be too late.”

“Damn. I’ll radio this in and check where that other car is!”

John opened the door, jumped out of the vehicle despite Lestrade’s protests. “Oy! I thought we agreed for you to stay in the car!”

“She could be inside dying!”

“Or she could be dead.”

“Do you really want to believe that?”

Lestrade grimaced, as if John’s question caused him actual physical pain. John pressed forward and added. “I’m not going to believe that she’s dead unless I go check. I’m a doctor, I have to help!”

The radio in Lestrade’s hands squawked, tinny voices relaying the other car was ten minutes out. John’s gaze flickered from the radio, back up, to staring down at his friend. He nodded towards the townhouse. 

“Someone could easily die in minutes without medical attention.”

“You’re not even part of the Met, John. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to explain this to my superiors,” Lestrade groused as he switched off the engine, dousing the street in darkness once more. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, and shut his door with a soft click. “It was difficult enough after the scene on the rooftop.”

“Well, what do you usually tell them?” John asked as he pulled his gun from the small of his back, double-checking the safety mechanism. Just in case.

“It varies between wankers who don’t listen, or wankers who chose not to listen,” Lestrade answered, and then he motioned at John’s gun as he drew his own. “You shouldn’t have that out. You’re acting as a doctor, not an officer.”

“I was a soldier.”

“Then you should follow my lead.”

“Technically, you would be following mine.”

Lestrade realised there was no winning in this argument, especially with John’s gun in hand. Instead, he handed John a torch and waved at the door. “Either way, I don’t fancy telling Sherlock I got you killed. Try not to let that happen. And put the gun away when the others get here.”

John gave Lestrade a little salute, promised he would do his best not to get killed. Lots of people have tried, but here he was, still standing. John clicked on his light, shone it to the ground. “Lead on, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade nodded, “Be sharp, whoever was here could still be here.”

With that, John silently followed Lestrade as he took point across the short yard, up the steps leading to the door. It creaked open when Lestrade pushed it in with his toe. They were greeted with the view of a wooden staircase to right, and a grey corridor on the left that led deeper into the house. John glanced at Lestrade, wondering which way he should investigate. He got his answer when Lestrade nodded towards the staircase. The detective inspector’s torch flickered at the stairs. John took the hint and went. Lestrade disappeared in seconds, scouting out the lower level.

Each step had to be stealthy and measured in the narrow white staircase. The wood underneath his feet barely made a sound. John felt adrenaline coursing through him, a sense of purpose and power. The gun in his hand held steady. The light was still as well. In fact, both his gun and the torch were the steadiest and surest thing now compared to the situation. The wife could be dead. Someone could be in the house. John didn’t know how Lestrade was faring downstairs without backup. He knew to clear of any threats on the second floor, before returning back downstairs. 

Stepping on the small landing, John felt like he was thrown into a new eerie world. An unsettling feeling lingered in the air, chilly and barren. It seemed like no one had lived on that floor for some time, leaving it lifeless. And if someone had lived in this house, it seemed to have sucked the happiness out of anyone that stepped foot in here. His torch bathed the second floor in white, pale stillness. 

The only sound he could hear was the steady beat of his heart. John turned into the nearest doorway, casting light in the shadows, highlighting the corners. He found a room with storage boxes thrown haphazardly around. It seemed like they were either packing away their things or bringing them out of storage. John couldn’t tell, but he knew if Sherlock had been here, the detective would’ve known. Hell, he probably would have been able to deduce if someone was still in the house. 

But Sherlock wasn’t there. 

He tried to look at the scene like Sherlock would. The barest of colour came from the faded painted apple tree in the corner. It reminded John of the baby’s nursery that Mary picked out. Apples, or whatever fruit were supposedly a new trend- according to her. John didn’t care either way then. But seeing the apple tree tugged on his heartstrings... not a good time. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

He stepped deeper into the room, glancing down into the boxes. There were landscape pictures, rich in pinks, blues and purples, knick-knacks, and even a box full of women’s shoes. John stepped around the women’s blouses littered around the room from boxes that had been tipped over. He made his way through the mess and checked the small wardrobe in the corner, which was empty. Besides the mess, the room was clear.

John took into the short corridor and entered the remaining room upstairs. He brightened up the room right away. It was painted a horrible shade of off green, reminded John of too many snotty patients during the winter. The room definitely cried out for desperate need of repainting. Probably would never get one either. The furnishings were plain, the bed unmade. One bedside table was covered with a lamp, books, a pair of glasses, and a silver framed picture. The suspect back in New Scotland Yard was easily recognisable, and John assumed that the brunette around his arm, smiling in a white dress and veil was his wife, Megan. The very same one he wanted dead. The other bedside table was covered in a thin layer of dust, empty as empty could be. John only guessed it was her side. 

He made haste, checking underneath the bed, and inside the wardrobe. Both were empty. John ventured downstairs, and Lestrade met him at the landing. 

“Got anything?”

“The place looked as unhappy as their marriage. What about you?”

“Victim is in the kitchen, at the table.”

“Brunette?”

“Yeah, how’d know?”

“The suspect’s wife… she was a brunette in a wedding photo upstairs.”

“You could have just told me you magically knew somehow. Do the same thing as Sherlock does.”

“And be a pain in the arse?”

Whatever Lestrade was about to say was lost beneath the car brakes that squealed outside, two car doors slammed shut, and the awful metallic peels of radios. Lights lit up the dark street. John shared a look with Lestrade, and wordlessly tucked his gun away. 

“Take a look at the vic, but don’t touch anything. I’ve got to go outside and shut the street down.”

John walked down the corridor that Lestrade had cleared earlier. He noted the shadows, in a darker grey of squares on the walls. Empty spaces where photos were hung, obvious even without the torch. His footsteps echoed in the hallway, loud against the stillness. Even downstairs carried the same bleakness as the floor above. Life and happiness never existed in this house. He walked into the kitchen, finding blood splatter on the black countertops, and the broken glass door before spotting the victim on the floor. It was easy to see what had killed her.

Blood had oozed across the white tiled floor from the victim’s head wound. Shot through the temple, through the back of the head caused a tangled mess of blood, bones, and brain matter. A singular shot. It was a quick death, small victories for terrible circumstances. John glanced at the white cabinets to his left. Blood trickled down the surface in darkened river stains. She had been dead for a while, at least two hours.

He walked carefully around the kitchen, avoiding fallen bar stools and broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor. Even a probationary officer could see what had happened and came up with a decent conclusion of the scene. John turned around, thought he should go tell Lestrade what he thought the time of death was, and to get some damn gloves to confirm it when something yellow registered through the corner of his eye.

Stuck barely in eyesight was a yellow post-it note on the underside of the counter. Not that odd of a concept, considering that John uses them inside the refrigerator at home. Except this one had his name written on it, in clear, almost feminine scrawl. He groaned. He knew that he shouldn’t even look at it, or even take it. But he did.

Below his name were two words: Bedside table. 

John stuffed the note in his pocket, and went down the corridor. He glanced through the open front door, almost expecting to get caught out. No one was paid any attention, including Lestrade. He was busy calling orders to the other two officers. He snuck by, flitting up the stairs. No one would see John, stealing evidence. That was a job mostly reserved for Sherlock. He also mentally promised himself that he wouldn’t make a habit of it. 

He went back into the snot-green bedroom, eyed the bedside tables, and tried to figure which one the note was referring to. And Sherlock would have probably known right away, either from the shadows of something or the wooden knob, if the man had been here. But it was only John. He went for the nearest one. The lamp swayed from the movement as John pulled out a drawer. He wrinkled his nose at the dozen or so foil wrappers. He sure as hell hoped that the note was not referring to the condoms. He went to the other, dust covered beside table. 

The drawer opened with a wood against wood screech. Inside, was nothing but an outdated black flip phone. Paired with another post it note. Only four words were on that note.

John Watson. Take me.

His name again and the ‘take me’. He’d hope that it was referring to taking the phone rather than whoever had planted it. Someone knew that he was going to be here. John hated that. Predicting his every move like he was some piece on a chessboard. He was a human being for god’s sake, not something predictable to be in someplace, at the right time, hours in advance. John stuffed the other note away, joining the first in the pocket.

Seeing the time on the phone face made John yearn for his bed. Or tea. Or perhaps tea in bed. Either way, his eyes burned looking at the blue numbers. He flipped the phone open. There was a-

“John! You still here?”

John snapped the phone shut and tucked it away. “Yeah. I’m still here. I was checking to see if the vic was the wife.” 

He left the bedroom, and was greeted by Lestrade at the bottom of the stairwell. The other two officers walked by him, headed into the kitchen where the body was. There was a frown on Lestrade’s face, and not his usual ‘this is a difficult case’ frown, but like the ‘barer of bad news’ frown.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock was attacked by the suspect in custody. Dimmock is taking him to the hospital.”

“How bad?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Right then. Your vic has been dead for at least two hours by a gunshot wound delivered at the front of the head. Your team will confirm that much. I should go check in with Sherlock.”

And John didn’t wait for a farewell, a dismissal, or an offer for a ride from Lestrade. He ran into the night until he reached the main road, hailed a cab, and climbed inside. John glanced outside while he was engulfed in the silent dark of the back seat. It wasn’t even daylight yet, and everything has managed to go to shite. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, in a hurry to get to Sherlock.

The mobile he stole from the crime scene burned a hole in his pocket, but with Sherlock’s status currently unknown, he could not care less what it will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Leave feedback if you wish.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worry, Message, Official

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone. Thank you for the support. Here's another chapter! Thank you to the beta Whitehart!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 25

Even during the wee morning hours, traffic was horrendous. To John, the cab wasn’t moving nearly fast enough to the hospital. His nerves were a wreck all because Sherlock was an idiot. Was it Sherlock fault it got physical? John just had a feeling it was. And now, he was feeling concerned and worried for the said idiot. How badly was he hurt? How exactly did the idiot get hurt? The last John knew, Sherlock dismissed him and sent him away with Lestrade to speak to the killer alone. Did something happened right then?

In order to get his questions answered, John needed to be at the hospital. At this rate, it seemed like he was never going to get there. Hopefully Sherlock wasn’t being completely intolerable, if so, John would’ve received a call on his mobile by now. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. Nothing. No missed calls or text messages. Thinking of Sherlock, and of calls, John pulled the now-considered-ancient flip phone from his pocket. Blue light from the time blended in with the streetlight flickering in and out of the cab.

He flipped the phone open and was greeted with a blurry picture of…the Buckingham palace, as if someone had taken it on the background. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and it actually looked like a completely normal functioning mobile. 

Until it beeped. 

John, for the moment, thought he had met his end. Flashes of explosions went through his mind. He threw the phone down on the cab floor, waiting for something to happen. Either the cries of grenade from several different voices, or the cries of pain that followed after the explosions. He vaguely wondered how much of him would be left… until the cabbie’s voice cut through the flashes.

“Oy! Don’t break anything back there!”

John blinked. He sighed, realising what had happened. “Sorry, just dropped my mobile.” He bent down, picking the inoffensive object from the dirty carpet. “They’re slippery little buggers.”

He heard the cabbie in the front grumbled about how he attracts the weirdos at night. John didn’t waste his breath to argue. He was far from normal- this much he was willing to admit after so many years. He knew now that the mobile wasn’t going to explode. A surge of relief washed through his mind. John glanced back down at the screen. At the top, in the alert bar, was a flashing envelope. There was a unread text message. John just stared at it. 

It seemed wrong to snoop through a dead woman’s mobile, and even more so to check incoming text messages. But there were other ways to earn that ticket to hell. Not that John really believed in heaven or hell for that matter. But, going through a mobile of a recently deceased, was no good at all. 

This mobile was left for him, with his name, for a purpose. And the argument in his head ended with that. John already knew he was a bad bad man. He could feel terrible later. 

He clicked open the messages folder. The Outbox was empty. So was the Draft. There was only one received text message. 

Inbox(1)

John opened it. Then froze.

‘Kill Isaac Spoo. 48 Hours. Or Sherlock Holmes is next.’

The mobile popped in his hand, startling John once more. This time he held it, not wanting to seem like a complete weirdo, throwing mobiles in the early morning hours. The blue screen faded into black, taking the message into oblivion along with it. John pressed an array of buttons, trying to recall how to switch on this kind of mobile. It was adamant about staying dead and it was apparent to John that there was nothing he could do to bring it back to life. 

John slumped back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Kill’, ‘Isaac Spoo’, ’48 hours’ he kept the message in the forefront of his mind. The question was, the message meant for the wife? Or for him, considering the two notes both had his name, and the threats to Sherlock, John concluded it had to be for him. It had to be. Now, who would go through all of the trouble to make sure he found it? 

“What the-” he murmured aloud.

“Did you say something back there, mate?”

John’s eyes snapped open and to the pair of eyes looking at him in the rearview mirror. The message was a threat on Sherlock…had something already happened? Could that be the reason why Sherlock was hurt? 

“No. How much longer? At this rate, I could run there faster.”

“There’s no need for that, the hospital is right around the corner,” the cabbie motioned out the window. “We’ll be there in a tick once traffic gets moving again.”

John did consider that. Hell, he knew that the hospital was right around the corner. They’ve been there often enough with the serious injuries that couldn’t be tended to at the flat, and that speaks for how often they get injured. He could see the gaggle of women, stumbling across the road, disturbing the route of traffic.

John have had enough. His patience tipped over the limit.

He pulled out his billfold, dropped the cash for the fare in the front seat. “Pull over, I’ll finish the rest of the way.”

“No, I’ll take the way ther-”

“No. Pull over.”

John saw the cabbie roll his eyes. “You seem in a hurry. I’m not going to argue.”

“Good.”

The cabbie pulled over with a plethora of honks and displeased shouts behind them. The boot of the cab blocked the rest of traffic behind them. John peeled out of the backseat. 

“I hope you’re happy, thank you for-”

John slammed the door shut, cutting the cabbie off. Then he started running down the pavement, not bothered to glance back. His worry for Sherlock made him breeze around the corner, into the hospital, and barreling into the front desk. A brunette nurse in dark blue scrubs glanced up from her paperwork.

Not even winded from his run, John stated. “Sherlock Holmes? Tall, black hair, posh bloke with a terrible motormouth?”

The nurse grimaced, her nose wrinkled with irritation, as if she had had some recent experience with Sherlock. John could bet a large sum of money, and win it, that she probably had. Sherlock being his usual self was good news then.

“Room 165,” she answered sharply. “A friend of yours?”

“My only.”

“He’s an arse.”

John nodded and smiled. “Yes. I know. Thank you.” 

And he thanked her only because they would probably have to visit the hospital in the near future. Then he took down the hallway. It had been a while since any severe injuries happened. It also always paid to be kind, even if Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to care.

Down the hall was room 165. Sherlock’s cultured voice came from the other side of the door, and was followed by another cultured voice: Mycroft’s. Another brotherly spat, evidently.

“Go back to your club and annoy someone else.”

“I merely suggested something for your withdrawals, Sherlock. Your last ‘cocktail’ was almost your last. Your doctor-”

John didn’t pause at the door; instead he pushed it open and walked inside. There was some pride in interrupting Mycroft. He partly expected Sherlock to be in the bed. How terribly injured would he be if he were insulting the hospital staff? Who knew how many people have come across Sherlock, tried to tend to his injuries but instead had gotten sliced by his sharp mouth. He was also verbally sparring with Mycroft- all good signs? 

Hopefully. 

John’s eyes landed on the bed. Empty, except for the spread of medical supplies on the simple blue duvet. John found Sherlock bunched in a chair, holding his knees to his chest, glowering at Mycroft, who occupied the other chair across the room.

“Your presence is no longer required, Mycroft. My doctor has arrived.”

John half-smiled as he crossed the room to his patient, observing the injuries on Sherlock with every step. Two cuts on Sherlock’s face, one on the cheek, and the other cut on the brow. Knuckles on both pale hands were bloodied. Defensive wounds. It seemed like those were all of Sherlock’s injuries. Not bad at all. After all, they had been through worse--

The message on the mobile surfaced in his thoughts… 

He shook his head gently and ignored it. John grabbed the antiseptic from the bed, and started on Sherlock’s cuts.

“Yes, and his presence add to your suffering,” 

John flinched once as he cleaned the cut on Sherlock’s brow. He met Sherlock’s eyes. Nothing in those prismatic depths mirrored Mycroft’s words. Instead of ‘suffering’ there was plain and obvious affection. It made his heart jump because it clicked in John’s head that this now belongs with him. Now, they were here. John grinned down at him. Caressing the uninjured cheek slyly before he turned around and grabbed the small bandages from the bed. He met Sherlock’s eyes again as he asked lightly.

“How’s your search for how Moran’s prison evasion?”

Sherlock grinned at him, pleased, a look hidden by John’s body from Mycroft. 

There was a peeved huff from behind him.

John resisted the urge to wink at the Sherlock. After all, he was a professional doctor when it came to tending his patients…except for when Sherlock unfolds his long limbs, and spread out to frame John, like he did now to give John more access to his injuries. His memory recalled the last time they were in this position. Even with a blush, John moved to work on the cut on Sherlock’s cheek.

“An accident on the road to the prison. The driver had a likeness to Moran, swapped out of his clothing and sent to prison instead.”

“Well, that explains that. What about the missing mobile numbers then?” John asked. 

He would play verbal sparring if it got Mycroft off of Sherlock’s back about them. Everyone in this room knew that Mycroft was a ‘concerned’ older brother. He didn’t need to prove it every time John shared single space with Sherlock. It was just getting embarrassing at this point.

“We enhanced the footage from 221B of your exchange with Moran. The numbers are now disconnected.” 

“What did he say in the car, Sherlock? He had his people on it?”

“His best people,” corrected Sherlock.

John hummed. “Apparently.” 

Footsteps echoed through the room, joined with the telling click of an umbrella against outdated hospital floor. Mycroft’s voice came from farther away. John had rather hoped he was by the door. Or, headed there. He needed to talk to Sherlock without big brother watching.

“Now that you are being seen to, I will take my leave, unlike you, Sherlock, some people have real responsibilities. I’ll alert you both if the circumstances changes. I also want to mention that 221B is secure and currently under surveillance.”

The door clicked shut. John relaxed, relieved at the peace of just him and Sherlock alone. He switched from professional doctor to assessing all the damage as Sherlock’s ‘all-in’. A deep frown formed on his face as he took in the injuries. 

“What-”

“I’m perfectly fine. Stop mollycoddling.”

“It’s not mollycoddling if you’re injured,” John retorted, grabbing Sherlock’s larger hand into his own, holding the pale knuckles up to Sherlock’s eyesight. “Two cuts and bruised knuckles? What were you doing, fighting the suspect?”

“I held him off. I know how to fight, regardless what Mycroft thinks. I’m not helpless. I’ve mastered most hand-to-hand combat.”

“Wasn’t the criminal handcuffed to the table?”

“I picked the lock.”

“Why?”

“Obviously to gain his trust. He told me his name, useless really.”

John sighed and turned around to grab another wrap for Sherlock’s hands. He worked as he spoke. 

“I’m not saying that you’re helpless. I’ve seen you box. It’s just… you should take better care of your hands. You’ll go mad if you couldn’t torture your violin every night, or hold a flask properly for one of your experiments.”

There was a light laugh from Sherlock before the room fell silent. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s cufflink, pushed up the light blue sleeves and checked the gun wound. It was healing nicely. It wouldn’t need another bandage, but he still cleaned the pale skin around the injury. Once he was finished, John buttoned the cufflink, and returned the sleeve back to where it was. It turned out that Sherlock was a sensitive with his suits as he was with his sock index. As John went for the last of the supplies on the bed, Sherlock’s voice broke through the silence.

“Do my hands remind you of a woman’s?”

John snorted, caught off guard by the bizarre question. It wasn’t out of the ordinary that Sherlock asked odd questions - usually about postmortem and time of death or if he could have another head in the freezer. The answer will always be ‘no’ to another head. Never about Sherlock, or his features. John turned around. A smile rested on his face from the ridiculousness, and then he noticed the look on Sherlock’s face. 

Somber. 

John frowned. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, John.”

John cleared his throat. His eyes flickered between Sherlock’s eyes, and the frown of Sherlock’s lips. He knew Sherlock well enough, better than most people do. Well… to be precise, John knew Sherlock intimately, having lived with Sherlock in close proximity longer than anyone else to know when sulk was coming, or what karate-chopping the fridge meant. Knew him intimately as of recently, physically how Sherlock felt under his hands, but still this question seemed to mean something else. 

“No,” John answered, not bothered to leave out the confusion in his voice and then he added. “What brought this on?”

“Someone remarked about my hands once. I was just high on painkillers at the time but I thought the comment was odd. Then again, the whole situation was a bit… unusual.”

Well. John was thoroughly confused now. What situation? Was it now? Was Sherlock taking painkillers? Because he just overheard Sherlock refusing them. And who the hell said that? Surely, Sherlock would have mentioned it to him if it were recent. 

“Did the suspect say something?”

“Douglas Hageman?” Sherlock asked, he waved his hand therefore defeating John’s purpose of wrapping up the second hand. John grabbed the wrist gently to hold it still as Sherlock went on. “No, Magnussen did in the hospital after I was shot. Before a malfunctioned trigger ended his life. You and I witnessed it.”

That wasn’t how John remembered it. His pulse quickened thinking about the red sight lines on Sherlock. And the smell of gun and blood carried in the air. John remembered the wind swirling around them, and Sherlock’s voice within the noise, promising that Mary was safe now, he was safe now, and so was his child. John declaring Christ’s name in every way known to mankind. Surprise must have shown on John’s face because Sherlock added. “Mycroft didn’t tell you.”

“No. Is that the story?”

“The official one.”

“Right,” remarked John with a slight nod, feeling a more than disappointed he didn’t know the truth…or the alternate truth in this case. Then he patted Sherlock’s bandaged hands. 

“So, why did you have to ‘hold’ Douglas Hageman off? Did he attack you?”

“I may have implied he was jealous of women, and he had secretly desired to cross-dress.”

“You said that to piss him off.”

“You do know me.”

John grinned and sat on the edge of the bed, avoiding getting rammed by the railing. Sherlock’s larger hands perched between his, pale fingers danced in the shelter of John’s hands. “Yes. I know you and you know me. What did he want?”

“To tell me his dull, boring life story, waste of time, really. Was crime scene more interesting?” 

John didn’t bother asking how Sherlock knew. “No. The wife was dead for hours. When I left, Lestrade was sealing up the crime scene. I found something else though.”

He pulled out the dead mobile from his pocket, the two slips of yellow messages, and presented it to Sherlock. 

“There was a text message. Kill ‘Issac Spoo’ in the next 48 hours… or you’re next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please leave feedback if you wish! Till next time.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss, Gift, Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, happy belated thanksgiving if you celebrate it- happy thursday if you didn't. Either way, I hope your day was fantastic. Meant to update this a lot sooner, but writing those other chapters makes me busy. Thank you for all the feedback, guys. I was looking back at previous chapters, and I said that this fic would be finished at Chapter 25- oh poor naive me. Anyways, here's the next. Thank you to my beta Whitehart.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations of these characters, stories, etc..

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 26

John rammed his bum on the railing by accident, startled when Sherlock jumped from the chair with grace. His large elegant hands spilled the mobile and the notes on the bed next to John. Then Sherlock’s hands palmed over either side of John’s face. Before John could question anything, the distance closed between them. Velvety lips ensnared his in a passionate capture. His eyes slid shut on their own accord. 

John didn’t bother questioning. Instead he focused on delivering a fine sweep of his tongue over seam where their lips are sealed, tasting the faded taste of toothpaste in Sherlock’s mouth. That one split second he switched from the taker to the giver. He had let Sherlock have his fun. Now, it was his turn. He kissed back with vigor, addicted to the way Sherlock felt. So warm, and a bit heavy.

Perhaps, the warmth and weight had a little to do with Sherlock pouncing onto John’s lap, with both long legs framing John’s thighs. It reminded John of a cat, even more so when Sherlock rumbled into the kiss as John’s hands traveled over the muscular thighs, up Sherlock’s chest, and finally landing in inky tamed curls. The scent of Sherlock’s hair product drifted in the air when John fingered through the strands. Sherlock broke the kiss with a groan, leaning his forehead on John’s shoulder.

“If you’re not careful, I could orgasm just from that.” Sherlock whispered.

John coaxed his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp, earning a moan and a full-body shudder this time from Sherlock. Any noise they made, moans or heavy breathing, quickly blended with chatter on the other side of the door, fading into the background noises of the hospital. 

In the room, it was just them. With the drapes open, the beginning of sunrise painted through the sky, splattering through the shades of grey.

“Can you now?” John teased, his lips trailed over the outer shell of Sherlock’s ear. It was the only bit of Sherlock’s skin John could reach. He was sorely tempted to test Sherlock’s whispered declaration now. He brushed the lightest touch of his fingertips in those inky curls again. Sherlock’s hands captured John’s, freeing them from Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock answered breathlessly. “Yes. I believe so. I’ve never tested it myself. Sensitive follicles could be considered to be the prelude to foreplay in this case.” 

“I’ll have to make a note of it for later. Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?” John motioned to Sherlock in his lap. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a bit of snogging.”

“Death threat. That text was much better than the lucky cat you gifted before.”

John snorted in light laughter. 

“You’re the one who bought the lucky cat for me. And technically, I didn’t gift you a death threat, it wasn’t on our list this year. Someone else did, and I just found it. We have 48 hours to find this Issac Spoo bloke or you are dead. We shouldn’t be happy about this.”

Sherlock scrambled off of John’s lap and crossed the small hospital room in a several long strides to the closet. John watched as Sherlock wrapped his dark blue scarf around his neck and pulled on his belstaff coat. “Oh, but I am.”

“So, the kiss was a thank you?”

“Partly. Isn’t that what people do in a relationship?”

“Of course,” John answered quickly, and then he added, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. “Is that what we are then? In a relationship?”

Sherlock turned, to face John. “What would you label it otherwise? Considering we agreed to be ‘all-in’, being ‘in a relationship’ seems appropriate, wouldn’t you agree? Or do you have a problem with that label?”

John shook his head. “Not a problem with that, no. Slightly off -putting that you’re pleased with death threats.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them again, grabbing the mobile and notes from the bed. Sherlock stuffed the items into his belstaff before pausing in front of John with a pleased grin. “But it is interesting. My reaction doesn’t count for anything, and with the death threats it can only be one thing.” 

Sherlock ventured back to the door, seemingly bouncing on his tippy toes in excitement. “Now, you need to sign me out. Mycroft had me checked in with these ridiculous doctors for injuries.”

John stood up from the edge of the hospital bed. His hands parked on his hips and he pointed at Sherlock with a disapproving frown. “I’m not forging paperwork.” 

An eye roll accompanied Sherlock’s words. “Fine, the whole tedious process would slow us down anyways. Mycroft will handle it; it’s the least he can do.”

“You sure do rely on him awful lot. Do you think you’ll progress beyond the arch enemy, sibling rivalry, into older brother view yet?”

“I don’t rely on him. I annoy him.”

“Big difference,” John countered with a grin, knowing that there isn’t much of a difference at all. 

He could see Sherlock bristling from the tease. He thoughts about how he was never really close with Harry. In ways, Sherlock and Mycroft were closer and that was a frightening thought. Apparently, John was the only one who will receive public displays of fondness from Sherlock. He wasn’t planning on complaining about it, especially when if he will occasionally get a lapful of detective.

“Exactly. Do come along, the lab is waiting.”

“What are we doing in the lab?”

John followed Sherlock into the corridor half- expecting to get caught escaping. But as they headed for the lifts, there wasn’t even a holler. They walked by two nurses, and a mum with a young child, who stared at Sherlock and tugged on his mum’s skirt for her attention. The boy did not get it. John spared the child a little wave, earning a frown from the boy instead. 

Sherlock punched the button for the lift, and answered. “To study the phone and notes that you found at the crime scene.”

The doors dinged open. John stepped inside, Sherlock right next to him. The doors closed, kept them trapped in the metal box. Mechanical whirling followed as the lift moved downwards.

“You mean to look for hidden clues. It didn’t blow up, so no hidden clues there.”

“Whomever was the sender didn’t have the intention to blow you up, but assigned you to kill Issac Spoo in 48 hours.” Sherlock turned, facing John with a frown set on his face. “Are you sure you have that name right?”

“I’m sure.”

“There could be more clues. Shouldn’t rule it out.”

“So, what do death threats mean?”

Sherlock grinned. “It means that we are getting close to whoever murdered Mrs. Hageman.”

“And whomever Mr. Hageman made a deal with,” finished John. 

The doors dinged open as Sherlock, grinned and spoke as he walked out of the lift. 

“Yup. We only have a bit of time to spare before starting our search for Issac Spoo and ask why our mysterious texter wants their life.”

John watched Sherlock’s long legs set the pace before he followed seconds later. He caught up to Sherlock, and remarked. “The surname should be easy enough. How many ‘Spoo’s do you know in London?”

“Did the text specifically said London, John? It has to be a worldwide search,” answered Sherlock.

“You’re kidding right. In 48 hours?”

“No, and yes. Under 48 hours would be ideal considering the fact that my life is on the line.”

Their footsteps echoed through the empty corridor all the way, up to the lab door. Sherlock pushed in the code and breezed through the door when it clicked from the other side. John said nothing. Sherlock should not have the code to the door. He must have remembered Molly’s. Or figured it out by analyzing the indentation, or the faded colours on each button. It was difficult for John to understand how Sherlock go the code. He wanted to ask, but even if he did, Sherlock probably wouldn’t answer. The detective had focus etched over all his features. 

The game was on. 

John followed Sherlock inside, and softly closed the door behind him. Sherlock was removing his belstaff coat and scarf when John motioned to the computer.

“So, I’ll start on that then? While you do whatever you’re going to do… with those.”

“If you must,” Sherlock replied, making a beeline to the microscope with the post its notes and mobile in hand.

“You should wear gloves because of your hands.”

John’s suggestion fell on deaf ears. He shrugged off his coat, and got to work. He stared at the computer for a moment, wondering where to start. Might as well from the beginning. He pecked at the keyboard, fruitlessly looking through the Internet search engines for ‘Issac Spoo.’ His search was failing miserably by the minute, getting results of spoons benders, funeral homes, and where to buy wooden spoons. On the seventh page of scrolling through of five-starred rating wooden spoons, he gave up.

He tried Facebook; there were always people on there. He tried blogs, following through whatever hashtags were. Dead ends. He also tried Instagram, the food picture website that Sarah had talked about one afternoon during a slow shift. She had explained that not everyone uses Instagram for food while she was taking a picture of her lunch. John wasn’t inclined to believe her. Neither was he swayed after looking through thousands of pictures- a lot of food, and nothing on Issac Spoo.

He was slightly disappointed with his results, but if he wanted industrial spoons to withstand Sherlock’s experiments, he now knew exactly where to look. It would be nice to have spoons without having to question what was on it, where it has been, and how did it ended up disfigured.

Ten minutes in, pecking on the keyboard and it was beginning to look like John was utterly and completely wrong. Finding this bloke could be more difficult than he originally thought. 

John sighed, slouching in discontentment. The tip of his toes brushed the floor as he shifted on the stool. He glanced over at Sherlock, who still had his eyes squinting intently into a computer screen whilst holding a fingerprint dusting brush, with gloves on. 

“Tell me you found more on the fingerprints than I did finding Issac Spoo.”

“Two partial fingerprints. One completely useless, and one full print.”

John brightened. “Good then?”

“No. The full print is yours. One partial is mine, and the other unknown. I’ll need a few more minutes to run it into the database.”

“And you just happen to know what my fingerprints look like?”

“I have them memorised, stored them in my mind palace. Thought it would be useful.”

John huffed, because only Sherlock would have something like John’s fingerprints memorised. He shouldn’t be surprised by it. This was coming from the man who stole his birth certificate in order to know his horrible middle name. He should be prepared to find out if Sherlock had some bits of his hair tucked away somewhere. It may be better if John didn’t know. He grinned towards Sherlock at the absurdity of that thought. 

At the same time he was flattered … more than flattered, really. He licked his lips, thinking how he had never expected to mean something to Sherlock, who picks and chooses information to keep, and deletes the useless. He’d never thought that he, plain John Watson, would ever be in there. It was something that he could name, but thought it would never happen between them.

“You could say that you have them memorised because you love me.”

Then John froze. God he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. He was looking directly at those silver eyes now. Sherlock looked as shocked as John was. Whatever they had been before John was their ‘all-in’. Now, whatever they were, hung in the air, boiling with tension of words that neither of them-, if Sherlock felt that way for him-, uttered aloud. 

“John, there’s something that I-”

The sharp trilling of Sherlock’s mobile disturbed whatever Sherlock was going to say. John couldn’t help but to feel a little relieved, but at the same time disappointed. Sherlock turned away, going back to his search. 

The moment seemed to have faded away, because whatever Sherlock was about to say, it was replaced with, “It’s probably just Mycroft.” 

John slipped off his stool, and stood up before he asked. 

“-where’s your mobile? Suit jacket or coat?”

“Suit.”

John crossed the lab. He reached Sherlock, brushing a hand over the darkened curl on the Sherlock’s neck before resting on the man’s shoulder.

“Right or left pocket?” John asked lowly by Sherlock’s ear. 

He really shouldn’t flirt while Sherlock was working. But Sherlock’s hands, neck, and even the cologne that permeated in the air distracted John. The startling dark bruise peeking out from his collar on Sherlock’s skin made John want to add another one. But they were on a countdown, during a case. Facing a death threat, and four people murdered, it was definitely not the best timing either. Best not get too distracted, or it might put Sherlock in a mood again, much like the one at New Scotland Yard when John was sent away. 

“Can’t you deduce it by now?”

Sherlock’s voice held zero hints of swinging into a mood. Or annoyance. In fact, it carried the same flirtations as John’s. His flirtations wasn’t being rejected despite Sherlock’s absolute focus was on the case. John’s other hand slid down, over Sherlock’s pectoral and into his suit jacket as the mobile trilled again.

“Left pocket. Obviously, Sherlock.” 

“Were you always so handsy before?”

And there was the touch of annoyance John had expected, with a hint of playfulness. John wasn’t sure when he pulled away and leaned against the wall cabinet with mobile in hand. 

“Complaining?”

“Distracting,” answered Sherlock. “but not unwanted.”

Before John could a have moment to tease, the mobile trilled in his hand. “Someone’s ringing you again.”

“Must be important. Do answer it.”

John snorted, and now the moment was gone along with his manners. 

“Sherlock’s phone. This is John.”

Lestrade’s tinny voice echoed from the other side. Sherlock had terrible mobile reception in the lab. “John? Are you with Sherlock?”

John glanced at Sherlock, allowing his eyes to roam over the man in the bright lab lighting. “Yeah, I’m looking at him now.”

“I got a text, saying that Sherlock will be dead in 48 hours.”

“Oh? So you got the death threat text too?” John echoed in a question. Sherlock’s head shot up from the microscope, eyes gleaming in interest. He looked like he was going to snatch the mobile from John’s hand. John took a step back, just in case and he was right to do so when Sherlock launched his lanky frame towards John.

“Did it mention the name ‘Issac Spoo’?” John asked.

“Yeah, it did. But that’s not all-,” Lestrade answered before his voice grew muffled, followed by a shout. “Don’t move the body! Get someone in here to take a damn picture of it!”

“Still at the crime scene?”

“No,” Lestrade replied gruffly. Stress and frustration easily passed over the static. The detective inspector then added, “Mr. Hageman was strangled in his cell. He recorded a message. I’m forwarding it to both of you. Hold on a tic.”

The mobile beeped in his ear. John pulled it away from his ear, and looked at the new incoming message. It had video file attached to it. He put the mobile back up to his ear. 

“It’s a video file? Wasn’t he locked up?”

“He was-,” Lestrade confirmed. “Whoever killed him did it inside New Scotland Yard and recorded it. Just watch it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Leave feedback if you dare.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Video, Discovery, Confess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here we go... warns of torture- if you don't want to read those parts, find the words 'Merry Mollet' and read from there, you'll get the gist of what happened in the chapter. Please leave feedback if you wish. Happy Reading. Thank you to all those who left feedback- you're awesome. Thank you to my beta Whitehart for making this chapter shiny.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 27

“What-”

The other line went dead. John pulled the mobile away from his ear, frowning at the contraption. He took a few steps into the lab, hoping the service bar would reconnect again. “Either Greg hung up on me or we lost service.”

“If he had, it certainly wasn’t the first time you’ve been hung up on,” Sherlock countered informally. “Send him a text if it bothers you. I doubt he would respond. Even I heard the shout about a body from here. He’s busy.”

John could definitely not defend himself, and it resulted in a frown towards Sherlock. He had been hung up on quite a bit with the list of ex-girlfriends he’s had, but he didn’t know if he should be offended on how Sherlock announced it. John settled for mentioning Sherlock’s lack of sensitivity on that matter.

“Now, what video did Lestrade send you?” asked Sherlock. He closed the remaining distance between them, his chin hooked over John’s shoulder, looking at the mobile, and where John’s thumb hovered over the play button. 

“The last message of Mr. Hageman before he was killed at New Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, “Do go on then.”

John opted not to pass the mobile back to Sherlock when large gloved hands with black powder hovered in mid-air, just centimeters away from their clothing. He held the mobile at a level they could both see, then pressed play on the video file.

There was silence in the lab for several minutes, waiting for the black screen to change. Waiting for anything to happen really, John thought he hadn’t pressed play because nothing was happening. He was going to press the button again when the screen flashed over to an up close zoom on Mr. Hageman huddled in a darkened corner, looking far rougher than when John had first seen him inside the interrogation room as Jack Ripper. A river of blood flowed from Hageman’s nose, bubbling when he tried to breathe and whimper at the same time. His eyes were glassed over. The criminal was also nursing his left arm, crooked at an unusual angle, which was probably the cause of the piteous noises.

The video angled around Hageman, briefly casting a caught shadow of the person behind the camera on the grey blotchy walls.

Sherlock whispered in his ear. “This interrogation room is shut down from water damage at the end of hall. You’ve seen the closed signs, John.”

John nodded because he had seen them briefly when he followed Lestrade to find Sherlock. “I saw a flash of the sign but I was more set on finding you.” 

A scream echoed through the lab from the mobile. Pain twitched through his leg, John shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Sherlock or the mobile. The camera pulled away, putting Hageman in full frame. John saw the complete state of injuries now. Both legs were broken too. Someone had dragged Mr. Hageman from his holding cell into the room. The angle zoomed in again. 

“I didn’t cause those injuries,” Sherlock clarified in a whisper. 

John hadn’t even thought of that, already knowing Sherlock had gotten his wounds in self-defense. “I know.”

The video went on.

“State your name for the camera,” a man’s voice loudly stated, from behind the camera. John figured whoever it was, he was the one operating it, and most likely injured Hageman.

“Douglas Hageman.”

“Very good. Now do what you’re supposed to do to begin with. I have places to be. I’m already missing my favourite programmes because of you.”

The video went silent again. But John could see Hageman shook his head in refusal. The angles jerked crazily, and another scream followed. John hadn’t like him. Hageman was a criminal, an arse, and a psychopath that killed four people without remorse. But torture was too much, especially when the man was broken enough already. John was about to pause the video when the earsplitting screams stopped into heavy breathing. 

“Go on.” 

The camera nudged a little, as if the person behind it was encouraging Mr. Hageman. The voice was a bit uneven, reminded John of someone talking with his or her mouth full. There was a sound of a flick, and smoke drifted into the frame. Whoever it was, they smoked.

John flickered his eyes over to Sherlock’s side profile. The detective squinted at the screen, his face expressionless. Hopefully Sherlock was gathering something from this. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” wheezed Hageman. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and made an audible hiss at the contact. With Sherlock’s name, it seemed the man had straightened upwards in the corner from the huddled lump of mass he was earlier. The change in his posture might be a reflection of some pride left even after taking the physical beating, or he was still pissed at Sherlock… not that they would ever find out. Mr. Hageman’s body was cold in his holding cell at New Scotland Yard. 

The camera changed angle, and Hageman stared into the camera. “You have 48 hours to figure out what this is. Your first clue: Start at beginning.”

“Start at the beginning of what?” John murmured just as the screen in the video jarred around, followed by scuffled noises for several minutes before a heavy slam echoed out of the phone. Then the screen turned black for a several seconds before flickering back on. The empty close up of Mr. Hageman’s eyes stared up at the camera, zooming back to show him hanging in the holding cell. 

John groaned and closed his eyes. “I didn’t need to see that.”

“You already knew about his death, John. Now, watch the video. New location, look at the walls, the footage was edited together.”

Sure enough, the footage was new. The walls were brick now, no longer the stale grey inside of New Scotland Yard’s interrogation rooms. Or showing Mr. Hageman glazed eyes. 

Instead it was a close up a young man, with frightened wide eyes, tape over his mouth, and tied to a chair- or John assumed he was, judging from how the young man wasn’t getting up and running. A sunglass-clad man perched behind the chair with a cigarette hung from his lip, and a hand fixed on the tied man’s head. The light hung above them, John could see the gleam of metal in the man’s other hand. A knife? A gun? 

“Who-” John asked, but was interrupted by Sherlock almost immediately.

“Moran.”

“And who’s-”

-“This is Issac Spoo,” introduced Moran followed by several hard pats on the man’s head. Moran pointed towards the camera as if towards John and Sherlock and the footage zoomed out, showing a littered floor, a sleeping bag and an everyday black bag tucked away in the corner. 

The tied man struggled while he sat and the gun - John was right- happily waved around Issac’s face, causing the man to scream against the tape. Moran sighed and smacked the gun against Issac’s face before he continued. “I know you’ve received text messages stipulating to find him in 48 hours or you’re dead, Sherlock. But there’s been a command to change the rules.” 

John glanced over at Sherlock, and met silver eyes for a moment before turning back to Moran’s voice over the mobile speakers, and it echoed throughout the lab. 

“I don’t make the rules,” Moran shrugged, and struck a match to light his cigarette. Smoke trickled from his mouth as he spoke. “But two more people will follow this poor lad here if you don’t figure out the message. Remember, start at the beginning, yeah? That’s your first hint, the second hint… well… take a great look at Spoo’s forehead before I ruin it.”

Moran held up Spoo’s head to the camera, so the singular light could catch. Written across Spoo’s forehead in black bold was the word, ‘Mollet’. Moran pointed at the screen again, and the video went black. Only the loud bang told John that the audio was still recording, and John could only assume that Issac Spoo was dead, as promised.

John turned to Sherlock. 

“Do you-”

“Merry Mollet.”

Moran’s voice came from the dark screen, “If you’re as smart as he thinks you are, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve already realised he’s the killer of the Mollet case I presented to you. Now start at the beginning. We’ll be in touch.”

Sharp static feedback radiated through the speakers before the video stopped at the end. John sighed heavily in the silence. “So, if I’m understanding this correctly. It’s no longer your life on the line, but two other helpless nameless people if you don’t figure out whatever message you have to figure out?”

“Not your best logical leap, John. But yes. We also know something else.”

“What?”

“Moran is working for someone. He mentioned it deliberately.”

“Who would that be?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, and John followed his line of sight, landing on the computer behind them. John turned around facing the screen with disbelief. Sherlock had ran the lifted fingerprints in the system before they started the video. Said that he had one print to scan. On screen, red letters flashed one name that sent chills down John’s spine.

‘Richard Brook’.

Moriarty. 

Was still alive.

“The spider has returned,” Sherlock stated hollowly. 

John looked over, finding Sherlock’s face a sickly shade of grey, and very much matching how John felt himself. He felt cold creeping underneath his skin, even with all of his layers of winter clothing over him. John wondered if Sherlock felt that way as well. They needed additional security and to be safe. Hell, they just needed to get away, as far away, as quickly as possible from Moriarty and his twisted mind. Maybe a vacation in Switzerland would suffice.

“I need to go back to Baker Street.”  
-Sherlock’s sudden announcement snapped John out of his vacation planning.

“You meant ‘we’ need to go back to Baker Street.”

There was no room for argument in John’s voice. 

The last episode with Moriarty ended up with Sherlock gone for years. John wasn’t going to let that happen again. They needed to go to Baker Street where John could keep an eye out on Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to argue either. The detective swept out of the lab as quickly as they arrived. John followed silently down the hallway, displeased with Sherlock’s long-legged pace, but matched it regardless. He wasn’t going to fall out of step with Sherlock this time. He will not let himself be left behind.

Silence hung in the air between them as they left the hospital, climbed into a cab, and finally, thankfully, arrived back home to Baker Street. 

For once, surrounded by Mycroft’s security cameras helped John settle his anxiety. The familiarity of their chairs, crime scene files posted on the walls and with the wondrous supply of tea, seemed as good as a ‘vacation’. John helped himself to tea immediately after the pot was finished boiling and the bags seeped to his taste. He placed another cup by Sherlock, whose eyes were affixed on his microscope, and hadn’t said a word other than his last reference to Moriarty’s return. 

John was in the midst of making them breakfast, simple eggs and toast (again) when the sun finally broke through the sky. Bright yellow stream of light trickled through the windows, but the ghastly grey still shadowed over Sherlock’s features and had been there since the lab. John couldn’t help but notice the slight shivers of Sherlock’s hands when he adjusted the knobs. Even in the safety of their home, and Mycroft’s watchful eyes, something was still bothering Sherlock. Coldness followed them, like a ghost, sucking life out from the warmth of their safety net.

“Sherlock-” started John while leaning against the counter, uncertain how to proceed next. He watched Sherlock’s face, waiting for any acknowledgement, whether it be a flicker of eye movement, or a gentle tilt of the head. They needed to talk! John needed to talk about it. Moriarty was alive, and they were trying to pretend like everything was normal again. It was a normalcy that they couldn’t afford, again. 

Sherlock didn’t move. 

John turned around and finished cooking breakfast, muttering curses as he went. 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him when he sat down to eat. 

Sherlock didn’t drink the tea or eat the breakfast that John made. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything for hours into the afternoon, leaving John in the flat, stir-crazy and grumpy from anxiety and the early morning wake-up. He was going mad from the need to say something. 

Which was the reason at two-thirty in the afternoon, John exploded.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?!” 

John threw the newspaper and it went flying across the flat as he sprung from his chair. He stomped into the kitchen, where Sherlock still sat in his damn chair in front of his damn microscope.

“Moriarty is still alive, and you’re just-” John gestured his hand angrily at the scene.

“We’ve played this game before, John. The pool for an example.”

Oddly enough, those six words hit John with the sudden scent of chlorine and the phantom heaviness of semtex on his body. John fixed his hands on his hips. 

“What do you mean?”

“Before officially meeting Jim Moriarty, there were the crime sprees. Solve this crime at this certain hour or this random individual blows up. Do I need to go on?”

“YES!”

Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back from the microscope in exasperation, as if he hadn’t been driving John insane for most of the morning. John blinked in disbelief at that utter git. The doctor furrowed his brow in frustration, waiting for the utter git to go on. The chair screeched against the floor when Sherlock turned. Long legs crossed left over right, and quicksilver eyes met John’s.

“Moriarty’s only weakness, or so he said, was his ability to change his mind. He had done it once at the pool. He had done it just now with my death threat and Issac Spoo. He’ll do it again, I’m certain of it.”

John nodded, and a plethora of emotions flashed over his face, judging by the confused expression on Sherlock’s before the detective frowned. 

“So, you’re so certain about his weakness… you know, to bet two innocent lives?” asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You don’t know if they are innocent. But yes, I am that certain. He’ll change his mind when we don’t acknowledge the challenge and don’t figure out the message.”

“So, we are… what? Holding out? Playing chicken? And what if that doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“You’re not always right, you know. You’re guessing.”

“Moriarty will change his mind when he realises that we are not solving the message.”

“Do you even know what the message is?”

Sherlock tilted his head back and forth as he answered. “Inkling here and there. Not exactly a priority if Moriarty might give us the answer. He meant to lure us in, and we are going to lure him out.”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

John cleared his throat and leaned against the doorframe. Arms folded across his chest. “He wants to lure you out. Isn’t this what Mycroft warned you about?”

“Mycroft has warned me about a lot of things. ‘Don’t do this Sherlock’-” 

“Being hunted.” John quickly elaborated, and then he added, “What if you-” 

The rest of his words caught in his throat and his mouth clamped shut. He couldn’t even begin to think of Sherlock becoming permanently… dead. Underneath the cold ground. John would not be able to go through another funeral and the rest of his life with that kind of finality, that kind of emptiness. He asked for a miracle once, and you only get one. It seemed like an unwritten rule somewhere out there in the universe. Any more miracles would be selfish. If he were granted another miracle to get this psychopath off their backs, John would gladly use it-. 

He sniffed sharply to center himself before he continued. “What if, whatever this is, you end up dead, for real this time? Or if it’s my turn to jump off of a building? What then?” 

By the time John finished, he was breathing heavily. His heart was pounding. Moriarty nearly killed them both. Several times. This could be the last time they brush past death. Sherlock stood from the chair, and paused in front of John. John straightened up from the wall, caught in Sherlock’s blue eyes.

“We made a promise to each other, John,” stated Sherlock gently. A large hand palmed over the side of John’s face. “We’re all in together. I love you, as you’ve probably deduced by now.”

John laughed lightly. The pounding in his heart was no longer of panic, but of lightness, of complete and utter relief to finally have those words out in the open between them. He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. “You’ve probably deduced it long before me, Sherlock.”

“You were flirting with me at Angelo’s all those years ago, not a difficult leap from there. Trusted you would get there eventually.”

John snorted. “Don’t get cocky. I wasn’t flirting with you then.”

“But you would’ve liked to?”

“I would’ve loved to.”

Sherlock smiled before crowding into John’s space. The doctor’s mouth was captured and covered immediately. When the kiss broke, Sherlock whispered against his lips. 

“Take me to bed, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Leave feedback as you wish, or yell at me about another cliffhanger. I love those :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm here, I'm alive, I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Man...the long awaited chapter. Give love to my beta whitehart for being brilliant and adding more 'mmmm' to smut. Can I say that here? I was really really close to ending the fic here, so all of you should thank Whitehart for talking me out it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 28

John wasn’t a man who would turn down the wonderful, perfect offer of taking Sherlock to bed twice. He wasn’t going to. No way in hell. He wasn’t an idiot… 

But he was still reeling from Sherlock’s confession, partly because he knew that he should have said something back that was more profound, more meaningful to the both of them, things that he should have said a long time ago, and never did. 

It had crossed his mind once or twice to say something, especially that one afternoon with the wine bottle in hand as he walked into Sherlock’s room. Then he never had the chance before Sherlock’s stunt that spiraled John into years of grieving. Afterwards, with Mary, he had placed a wall around his heart, so he wouldn’t ever get attached again. 

John leaned against the doorframe, looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes, staring at the man who lived as a walking (sometimes annoyingly) and talking miracle -- who just admitted to loving him.

What else could John say? 

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead with his sweaty palm and lowered his face to the floor. This nervous habit of his … it’s bad. He knew it would send Sherlock mixed signals.

And it did. As Sherlock step away trying to understand what was going on, John realised he should do something about it. He didn’t want any more distance, walls, or separation. This was the time to piece themselves together with each other, take comfort in each other, embracing each other’s ghosts. 

He stepped forward, closing the small distance with his forehead resting against Sherlock’s chest. He felt Sherlock’s beating heart, warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of his expensive cologne. He had desperately wanted them to be together, and now that he had it, John had no idea what to do next. Sherlock’s hands ran a heated trail up his spine. One elegant hand held the back of his neck, covering it fully, and the other hand stopped on his shoulder. 

John heard and felt the sigh from Sherlock.

He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s hand sweltering into his skin. The embrace they were in now felt absolutely right. It was what they had needed, more than they care to admit, more than they have ever shared with one another. And it had been waiting to happen.

He admitted that much with a whisper. 

“I’m not good at this, you know. I’ve never been good at this.”

“Neither am I. ” Sherlock offered in a deep rumble. His fingers gently twirled the blond-grey hairs on the back of John’s neck. Sherlock gently pulled John closer and corrected himself. “Was I. Those years away from your company, brushing past death so often made me realise how much I’ve craved for you without recognizing it. I meant to return sooner…before... everything,” Sherlock finished lamely.

John sucked in a breath and held it. Sherlock was rarely lost for words, and it wasn’t too often when John knew exactly what he meant. He exhaled, feeling guilty for… ‘everything’. 

‘Before everything’, meant John’s own mistakes of marrying a woman he barely knew, blinded by the heartache that Sherlock had left him behind. He felt untrusted, unwanted, and deep down, back then, he knew that was the reason why he married her – spite Sherlock, to cover up weaknesses he will never admit to. His hands fisted Sherlock’s suit jacket, probably ruining the sleek lines with the indentions of his fingernails. He didn’t care.

“John. I will not leave you behind ever agaian,” Sherlock simply stated; saying exactly what John needed to hear. Sherlock’s hands tightened, the motion somehow grounded John, both physically and mentally. 

They had a promise, they were all in together, and it was a relationship. 

He had chose long before Sherlock realised it exists.

John stared at the floor beneath their feet, staring at a stain that was evidence of an experiment gone awry. He compared the differences between their wear of shoes, the colour, and even the size. As he let his mind drift, he started comparing the differences between them as two different people, amazed that their characters danced in sync with each other. It felt like an eternity, standing there, breathing the same air, and feeling the drum of Sherlock’s heartbeat. 

John closed his eyes, and destroyed the last wall. 

It was time. 

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock remarked. 

“No, you didn’t,” John countered automatically as he looked up with an eyebrow raised playfully. He paused. There was nothing smug on Sherlock’s face that matched the tone seconds ago. Instead, his face held obvious joy, love, and wonderment, as if he had been waiting as long as John had for this conversation.

“I did-” Sherlock whispered. Sherlock’s hands pulled John upwards, and closer. Sherlock’s lips stopped at hairbreadth apart from his own. Lips brushed against each other when Sherlock continued. “But wouldn’t allow myself to see it until you did.”

“It could’ve never happened.”

“I had made my peace with it.”

Jesus Christ! That wasn’t something John wanted to hear. They could’ve wasted a lifetime of almost, and or never. It was John’s reality when he thought Sherlock was dead. 

But now, it would be forever, a lifetime like this. He grabbed the front of Sherlock’s suit and pulled. Anchoring the taller detective downwards as he went on tiptoes, holding onto Sherlock’s shoulders. 

He sprung forward snatching Sherlock’s mouth in frenzy, earning a surprised hum from the detective. Gone were the hesitancy, the walls, and the line drawn in the sand. John groaned into the kiss when Sherlock finally got with the program. His tongue trailed the seal of Sherlock’s lips that opened to up to him willingly. John’s hands found the inky curls, held Sherlock’s head in place to kiss him harder and deeper. No words could express how he felt, so with the movements of his body, to reinforce his words that he loved Sherlock. Had always. Will always. 

His hand twisted in Sherlock’s hair-, and the next thing he heard was a loud thud. 

The back of John’s head connected with the doorway in a burst of surprise agony. His backside protested with pain when he landed on the floor. His back, where his gun was, had the same compliant-.

-Sherlock was also down there, glaring at his own knees.

John carefully stood and huffed a laugh. He flinched when he felt the tenderness on his head. It felt like it was only a bruise, but he should take a look at it again later. Next, he pulled the gun from underneath his shirt, automatically checking the safety before placing it on the kitchen table. He offered his hand down to Sherlock, who still was unhappily dumped on the floor, red lipped and rumpled. 

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“That was unexpected.” Sherlock stated flatly.

“Unexpected?” 

John earned the usual, ‘isn’t obvious’ glare from Sherlock as he explained. “My knees gave in … I was resisting to orgasm with your hands in my hair.” 

John snickered. “Right. So, hair pulling will result in an orgasm or you fall down, duly noted.” As he reaches out his hands in offering to help Sherlock up, he wondered if the hair pulling had resulted in premature ejaculation. His eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s trousers, and then looked away, he avoided Sherlock’s eyes as he shyly asked, “You didn’t… you know… did you?”

Sherlock huffed at him, getting to his knees. His pale hands tugged the rumpled suit into place, as if to save his dignity. It didn’t help; the reddened lips and mad hair took away from it. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

John would have found his protest more believable if Sherlock’s cheekbones didn’t burst into a full blush. He shrugged innocently. He hadn’t meant for Sherlock fall down. To rile him up a bit, yes. Injured, no. 

“You did say it could be considered foreplay.”

“For me, and it was. I did not achieve an orgasm from it this time,” Sherlock countered darkly, his eyes flashed the same predatory look at John before his hands fixed on John’s belt. “But, let’s see how well you do. Don’t fall on me.”

John bit his tongue to make the obvious cheesy remark about falling for Sherlock. Perhaps later, when Sherlock wasn’t on his knees in front of him. Instead he encouraged with, “That’s a lovely idea. Sod the cameras.”

“Maybe later if we have the energy.”

John’s hands went to Sherlock’s hands on his belt. Then he paused. He arched his eyebrows at the detective, who might have been having a staring contest with his trousers. John wasn’t sure. Sherlock had said he wanted to go to bed, together… perhaps he had changed his mind. There’s way no way to guess what was on that brilliant man’s mind. 

“Everything alright? We can-”

“Everything is fine. There is something that I’ve needed to know since our first meeting-”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I have always wanted to know if you’ve always walked that way because your height…” started Sherlock, deft hands working on the button and zipper of John’s trousers. The pulling sound of the zipper teeth echoed in the kitchen.

“Or did you walk the way you do because you are well-endowed.”

John met Sherlock’s green eyes and licked his lips. Then he asked gruffly, “And what happens when you have your answer?”

“I’ll fellatio you, obviously,” Sherlock answered with a devilish grin. 

Then John’s trouser went to his knees, pulled down by Sherlock’s hands. His pants…well…John hadn’t worn any... He didn’t have the time to do laundry. And the surprise on Sherlock’s face was worth neglecting laundry for the next decade or so. 

Not doing laundry was a lingering thought- it disappeared as soon as Sherlock’s wet and hot mouth stretched around him, taking his cock in with the perfect amount of suction that made his toes curl, and his eyes fall close.

“It’s called sucking off-” John corrected breathlessly and shuddered. 

His hands balled into fists when Sherlock hummed, as if he was saying something around John’s cock to counter. But John didn’t ask. In this scenario, Sherlock didn’t need to have the last word, not right now, for god’s sake. He resisted the urge to tilt his hips forward. Gently, he reached his hands forward and caressed Sherlock’s neck, slowly made his way up to his head, letting his hand move along with the detective’s head.

The heat of Sherlock’s hands burned onto his bare hips, holding him still and the insufferable clothes out of the way. Then Sherlock did something absolutely fantastic with his mouth. 

“Oh Christ.”

Of course, Sherlock would be great at giving head just like the madman was great at everything else. John had enough sense to groan – not whimper, he must retain some pride here. He threw his head back-

-And whapped his head on the wooden doorway again. The mouth on his cock disappeared with a lewd pop. John hissed from the loss of pleasure, and from the nippy air brushing past his wet cock. “Sherlock-”

Sherlock’s voice drifted from below. “Stop that, John. You’re going to knock yourself unconscious before we even get to the bedroom.”

To that, John opened his eyes and giggled, clearly a bit high with the whole situation. He was getting sucked off in the kitchen, and he would much rather have Sherlock blow up the kitchen this way. His trousers were hugging his knees, in the bright afternoon light, after they’ve confessed to loving each other. It was surreal. He giggled a bit more and lazily smiled down at Sherlock.

“Wasn’t my fault the first or second time.” 

“I’m not leaving it to chance for a third time,” Sherlock stated as he stood to his full height. John stared at Sherlock’s red puffy lips, the flushed redness of his accursed cheekbones when Sherlock stepped fully into John’s space. Looking at him, like John should know what the genius knew. John hummed with desire when Sherlock’s leg brushed against him, canting his hips forward, wanting more because it wasn’t enough. Nothing with Sherlock was ever enough. 

John met Sherlock’s prismatic eyes before they closed with a flutter. John knew what was coming and met the kiss halfway. It was awkward to balance, and John could taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue. The kiss broke when John’s jumper was yanked over his head, leaving John in his undershirt and his trousers around his knees. 

Sherlock growled over his shoulder, as he pulled away and stalked down the hallway into the bedroom. “Bedroom, now. We are not going to orgasm without penetration again.”

John quickly removed the rest of his clothes, and padded down the hallway naked. He found Sherlock had taken off his suit jacket in the midst of putting it away when John crossed the threshold with a grin. “We’re not?”

“No,” Sherlock answered without looking at John. Sherlock’s pale fingers fiddled with his cufflinks, proving to be difficult to remove when aroused. “Now, go lay on the bed. Don’t you dare fall asleep.”

John absolutely did not like the sound of falling asleep. Yes, he was tired from the early morning crime scene and the two whacks on his head earlier didn’t help, but this was the opposite of sleep. He wasn’t sure if he should be aroused with Sherlock ordering him about. It would be quite a scene when they are out on a care, or when he ordered John to make him tea.

He also wasn’t sure if Sherlock should be taking his clothes off without him. John should be undoing one button at a time, revealing all that pale skin, until Sherlock was as naked as he was. That was a progress no one should do alone.

So, John crossed the room and did something about it.

He moved Sherlock’s bandaged hands away gingerly, resisting the sudden urge to kiss the fingertips. It might have been too much romanticism for Sherlock. Instead he moved those hands to his torso, wordlessly gave Sherlock permission to touch again. John sighed when Sherlock’s hands hovered over John’s scar before brushing his fingertips over the scarred skin. 

“Let me.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, white teeth nibbled at an abused lower lip. John frowned. Using one hand to unbutton the appallingly small buttons, while he used his other hand to rescue Sherlock’s lip from permanent teeth imprints. It seemed Sherlock was as nervous as he was. “Don’t hurt yourself. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

The lip John rescued frowned at him. “I’m not nervous.”

John ignored him. The flick of Sherlock’s eyes and the heated blush that followed it told him otherwise. He finished unbuttoning the stupidly tight shirt, and he pushed it from Sherlock’s shoulders. It fell to the floor. 

“Someday, I’m going to rip your least favourite shirt off of you. It would be satisfying to hear the buttons scatter around the flat.”

“John-”

“I suppose you could have one of my jumpers in trade,” John continued lightly, hushed voice against the pounding of his heart. If he looked carefully enough, he could see the pounding of Sherlock’s heart, framed with nets of blue trailing underneath the porcelain skin, saying in their own words, ‘I’m alive’, ‘I’m here’, and ‘I love you’. No doubt John echoed the same, now they both knew. 

“Though, none of my favourites. You could safely take the horrid green one that Harry sent me last year. I think it’s the one you referred to as an abomination.” His fingers trailed into the light spatter of hair on Sherlock’s chest, then lightly brushed over one of Sherlock’s nipples. He chuckled lightly when the detective hummed and threw his head back, extending his pale long neck. John pressed a kiss to the darkened bruise he left earlier. 

“Do get on with it.”

John clicked his tongue, and rubbed his fingers back over Sherlock’s nipple just to be ornery since Sherlock was trying to be bossy. He was amazed he could touch now. He didn’t want to rush it, even if his cock was hard and heavy, waiting for his turn of release. 

No rushing, as he had told Sherlock over and over again. John would have to follow through with his own words. His hands traveled downward on the flushed heated skin. Sherlock’s muscles danced underneath his fingertips. John quickly undid Sherlock black trousers while holding Sherlock’s gaze. Then pushed the material down, along with his small black pants. John made a mental note to inspect those pants more closely next time. But for now, John took in the sight. 

Even though John was short, but he still had the compact body from his army days, mostly his arms. The rest could do with some toning. Sherlock’s body was made of angular lines, wrapped in smooth muscles, covered with a fine layer of hair. He stole a glance in the classroom, but this was spectacular, especially when Sherlock was as hard and ready as he was.

There was a flash of nervousness. It was fleeting and brief. Sherlock was everything he wanted. Bisexual or not, this was John’s first time touching a man. Touching Sherlock was as exciting as when he touched himself for the first time… maybe even more. 

John fixed a hand around Sherlock’s cock, teasingly moved his hand down the hardened silk shaft. Both their breaths hitched. John continued the motion trying different pressure to see what Sherlock liked. The motion was dry. John rubbed his thumb over the slit, smearing the precum to make the glide smoother, and it helped. But John knew that wasn’t enough, it wouldn’t have been for him.

He lifted his hand from Sherlock’s cock and licked up his palm. John stared at Sherlock while he did, and the detective let out hissed between swollen lips. John grinned, and licked his lips, savoring the taste of salt and tangy from Sherlock’s body. John wrapped his wet palm around Sherlock’s length again, and knelt down. Then he gingerly licked away a pearl of precum, teasing Sherlock some more before he would completely suck him off. Suddenly, Sherlock knelt down, eyes closed, to face John. 

“Please get on the bed, John,” whimpered Sherlock. His face was the picturesque of the word ‘wrecked’, with wild eyes, flushed lips. He dropped his forehead on John’s shoulder and stuttered, “If…you…I won’t last long.” 

John paused, feeling the throb of Sherlock’s cock. It radiated his desperate need to come. Feeling a bit smug with himself, John held his other hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, then pulled his hair, just slightly to get Sherlock to lift his head. They stared at each other for a few seconds, John’s hand still wrapped around his madman’s cock.

“You don’t need me to suck you off?”

Sherlock shook his head. “There will be plenty of other times. Just the bed, for now. I need to prepare myself.”

“And what I am going to be doing laying on the bed? Just watch? That doesn’t seem fair, Sherlock.” 

John asked as he stood and lifted Sherlock along, before he backed towards Sherlock’s bed, facing Sherlock. As the back of his knees touched the edge, he laid down, head on Sherlock’s pillows and displayed all he had, cock standing proud and hard.

“I could help you. I am a doctor.” John gave Sherlock a pants-dropping grin.

Sherlock lifted his dropped jaw with a blush. “First drawer, bedside table. Put the condom on yourself. I won’t require much preparation.”

John’s eyebrows met his hairline, already fiddling the knob of the bedside table. He found a bottle of used lubrication and a new box of condoms. Throwing the items next to him in bed, he motioned for Sherlock to come closer. 

The detective stepped out his trousers and pants. John watched, licked his lips and swallowed heavily when Sherlock crawled above him, creaking under their combined weight. He stayed hovering above John, knees brushing the side of John’s hips. John held the bottle of lube, about to coat his fingers to help Sherlock when the taller man grabbed his wrists and pinned it to the side, all while shaking his head wildly.

“Sherlock. Let me help you, alright? And what did you mean you won’t need much preparation? I don’t want to hurt you just because you’re rushing to get penetra--”

Then Sherlock leaned forward, catching John in a deep, filthy snog, shutting the army doctor up. John returned it was vigor. He had immediately forgotten that he was in the middle of a sentence. His hands were released, and slowly beelined to Sherlock’s weakness, and threaded through the inky curls, earning a deep rumble from the detective.

He didn’t even notice the pale fingers plucked the items from him. In seconds, John’s cock was encased in a condom and he hissed when Sherlock’s hand pumped over his length. Stroking his cock with those long elegant fingers at slow, teasing glide. 

“You never did-” John murmured, ending with a moan. “Answer.”

“You’re worrying too much.” Sherlock grinned at him, darkened curls hung down wildly, freed from John’s hands. He nodded his head towards the left. “I won’t need to if you look at the bedside table.”

John turned his head, going to go look, but pressed his eyes shut, gasping when Sherlock’s mouth fixed over his pulse point. He hummed in pleasure. “That’s a bit not fair.”

“Yes. You’ve said that before. Now hold still.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself--” 

The rest of his words dropped into silence at the blunt pressure on the head of his cock with Sherlock perched above him. Sherlock’s hand reached behind, guiding John’s cock to push at Sherlock’s entrance of his body. He wanted to thrust upwards, to chase the slightest catch of Sherlock’s rim again and again, especially when Sherlock’s breath hitched and his muscles tightened up. John’s hands grabbed the nearest thing he could latch on to. His nails dug into Sherlock’s sharp hips.

The madman slowly relaxed, allowing John’s cock to slide in and out his entrance just with the tip. Every time Sherlock tried to go deeper, John could feel his cock squeezed tightly at the head. It took everything John had to hold himself back from an extraordinary release.

A few more tries, and Sherlock was obviously getting frustrated. John held his hips and helped him readjust. Sherlock made a few comments on the new angle, but all flew by John’s head. He was in an absolute state of bliss, and all he could concentrate on was the man above him, trying to impale himself on his rigid cock. 

A guttural moan escaped his lips when Sherlock’s body gave, welcoming John into the tight, wet heat. He gasped. “Oh fuck.”

“Certainly trying,” grunted Sherlock breathlessly. Shuddering below, John sat up, moved his hands and held Sherlock’s arse, pulling them apart, whispering sweet nothings onto Sherlock’s chest while the taller man was taking John futher into his body. 

“Do hold still.” Sherlock whispered and moaned unashamedly as he repeatedly moved up and down on John.

All John could do was nod desperately and try his best not to orgasm before they had a chance to move together. He was breathing harder every time Sherlock slid up and down. His insides were so slick, John’s earlier worries had gone out the window. But he started to wonder what Sherlock did to himself. His mind started imagining Sherlock fingering himself open… in the bath, or over the sink, or in bed?

John caught himself on the edge. He had to lie back down and close his eyes. If he sees Sherlock fucking himself on his cock now, he would come instantly.

Sherlock’s moans drew John out of his own mind. He realised suddenly that Sherlock was sweating, and his face crinkled.

“Are you alright? You can slow down if it hurts.”

“Alright. I’m…” Sherlock held himself still for a moment and breathed really hard before he continued, “I’m perfectly fine.”

John was rubbing his hands on Sherlock’s hips, down his legs to soothe the trembling man- when Sherlock pulled his left hand towards the detective’s cock. It was flushed, and hard. Gently, John gave a few experimental tugs on Sherlock’s cock, earning high-pitched moans no one will ever get to hear. He pulled Sherlock down against his chest and moved his hand to touched where they were connected. Tracing the rim of Sherlock’s entrance, he looked up at the man, frowning, before closing his eyes again.

“Stop worrying. I’m really enjoying this.” Sherlock knew John was still worried about not personally preparing him, being a moan with the innate nature to care and protect. But just as he was saying that, he finally slid home, taking all of John in what felt like hours. Sherlock pecked on John’s face and nibbled on the doctor’s lips, only then did John open his eyes. 

The view above him was wondrous.

Beads of sweat clung against Sherlock’s temple, bathing the curls into an untamed, longer state, brushing below his ears. The dewing sweat on Sherlock’s shone in the sunlight beaming through the window. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, red-puffed lips opened with a sigh. His head thrown back as he slowly rocked on John’s cock.

Then Sherlock opened his eyes. Meeting John’s gaze.

It was overwhelming. The infinite swirls of colours in Sherlock’s eyes. The emotions that was fixated on him, radiating from their depths. John could see himself. As sweaty, as flushed, perched underneath the man who was infinitely his, as much as he was Sherlock’s. The connection John felt as though it would carry through universes, through lifetimes

He had never thought…

He would have this. 

Never. 

But it was finally happening. They are now together after running circles around each other for years, and they were here.

John reached for Sherlock. He didn’t have to reach very far, because Sherlock met him halfway. John brushed the hair from Sherlock’s face with a grin. Sherlock’s smiled back, seemingly brighter than the afternoon sun. It was the face of a man who knew how much he’s loved. It was a face no one else will ever get to see, except for John. It was the face of a self-declared sociopath finally finding his heart, and finally seeing a future not alone. 

Oh, how John felt the same way. He never thought he would have someone to love so desperately, or have someone to love him so deeply. He was, and is a physically and mentally broken army veteran. Who would have thought he would fall in love with an equally scarred man?

“John.” Sherlock held his palm on John’s cheek, “You’re thinking too loud. Focus.”  
“Ah, sorry. But do you know what I was thinking about?”

“Of course. Don’t be daft.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his attempt at pretending to be annoyed was futile. He couldn’t wipe the lust from his eyes, and smile from his face. And of course, when one is impaled on another’s cock, there’s really no way to pretend.

“And I love you too.”

John leaned forward, angling for a kiss. It was strong, filled with so many different emotions – pain, lust, desperation, and love. Their tongues danced and twisted with each other’s, fighting to take the lead. Sherlock’s hips nudged forward, throwing John’s senses into overdrive. Their mouths broke apart, breathlessly. Their hands linked together and began to move in their bodies in earnest, chasing pleasure like chasing criminals in the underground. Sweat dewed on their bodies. Hearts drummed in their chests. 

The mixture of their colognes and sex combined in the air, along with their voices. Each moan, gasp, sigh, and creak of the bedframe echoed throughout the bedroom. 

John held Sherlock close, slowly moving and thrusting in earnest when Sherlock fell limp in his arms. His muscles were relaxed, and John felt his cock easily sliding in and out of the man he loves. He could feel his own chest rising and falling, breathing hard, but Sherlock wasn’t. Quickly, the doctor stole a glance at Sherlock, and noticed he had turned beet-red from holding his own breath. 

“Breathe love.”

Only one word came out of Sherlock as the air flushed back into his lungs. 

“John.”

Then slowed. 

They moved.

Together.

As they’ve done from the very beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And....?


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake up, busted testicle, and well....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I'm having a bloody awful crap day! I decided to update it hopes that it would make me feel better. Please give love, kindness, and kudos. And don't forget to thank whitehart, who mostly provided the 'mmm' in smut. And yell at me for ending the way I did. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any others.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 29

When he opened his eyes, John was met with darkness in Sherlock’s bedroom. A warm frame shrouded behind him, a heavy arm laid over his abdomen and warm whispers brushed on the back of his neck in Sherlock’s sleepy baritone. John heard one word clearly, redbeard, before everything else faded with a sigh. John hummed comfortably. He was satiated, sore, and felt lighter as a person. They had finally gotten here. John shifted underneath the blanket (in actual fact it was just a think sheet of cloth), causing Sherlock’s arm to twitch. Sleep slowly faded from John’s mind as he looked at the clock on the bedside table, reading almost nine in the evening. No wonder it was dark. 

He had expected to have a bit of a kip with Sherlock. After all this git had fell asleep after they had both finished, left John breathless, sweaty, covered with ejaculate and a ‘heavier than he looks’ detective still on top of him. He had rolled Sherlock over, carefully, so he wouldn’t land on the floor. 

John had cleaned them both up, not wanting another repeat of sleeping with crusted dried semen on his skin again. He settled back after using the loo, without looking at the time when he had slid back into bed. Vaguely, he remembered being the bigger spoon in this sleeping arrangement. Apparently, sleeping Sherlock had other ideas. Not that being the little spoon was a bad idea per say. 

He reached for the bedside lamp, and switched it on.

John’s eyebrows met his hairline in surprise. 

Oh! That answers his question from earlier.

Sherlock grumbled sleepily into John’s hair. “I thought the idea was to have a bit of a kip. Switching the light on doesn’t make it easier.”

John ignored Sherlock, and only stared at the object on the bedside table. Sherlock continued to complain as he pulled the sheet over his face, “John, seems like you don’t have the same goals as I do.” 

He blinked several times, wondering if Sherlock had before… or when. John rolled over, propped up on his elbow and tugged the sheet off Sherlock’s head, earning a pouty frown from Sherlock. 

“What is it?”

John nodded his head over his shoulder, at the black plug on the bedside table. “Do you always run around with that in you?”

“Not always,” Sherlock whispered lowly. 

The low rumble lured John closer. More kissing, perhaps more of anything with Sherlock in general was a lovely idea. John was completely all in for more. He’d rather hope Sherlock felt the same.

He angled forward, planning to capture Sherlock’s mouth when he countered, “What about today then?”

Sherlock suddenly rolled away from him, and got out of bed elegantly. The tall lanky detective took the sheet, wrapped it around himself like it was his usual coat. All the milky pale skin John had touched hours ago was covered up right before his eyes. Sherlock padded around the bed, curls on his head bounced wildly. 

“Oi!” John complained when the chill in the air bit as his bare skin and all the warmth dissipated. He threw himself forward on the bed and grabbed the corner of the sheet in a fist. He grinned up at Sherlock in mirth with his naked bum in the air. 

“Where are you going? I thought the idea was to have a bit of kip.” 

With his free hand, John patted the mattress in invitation. “Come back to bed.”

John shivered when prismatic eyes roamed over him. 

Sherlock grinned darkly as he retorted. “Or join me in the shower.” 

The detective winked at him before letting the sheet fall, pooling on the floor. All of it did, except for the pathetic corner that was still balled in John’s hand. To say John was flabbergasted was an understatement, yet it was a minor detail. Then again, he was the one awkwardly perched on Sherlock’s bed, dazed, from the preverbal flirting. 

Shit. 

If Sherlock flirted with him like this, all the time, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive it. 

He watched as Sherlock turned away with a pleased expression and walked into bathroom, leaving the door open. The light flicked on. An obvious invitation and somewhere in the distance, John was pretty sure his jaw joined the sheet on the floor. Pipes rattled in the walls, he could hear the splashes of water, falling on the bottom of the porcelain. 

John’s mind whirled and his body reacted quickly in thought of his plan. In the following seconds, he leapt off the bed, snatched the plug from the bedside table, and strutted into the bathroom. John admired Sherlock’s arse as the detective dove into the stream of water. Grey eyes connected to John’s through saturated curls. 

John licked his lips. 

Tempted. 

Oh god yes, he was.

He tossed the plug into the sink, hard silicon clattered against porcelain. The sound loud and clear in the bathroom, along with his heavy breathing. John wasn’t going to need that. He decided in that moment that he wasn’t going to go through with his first plan of working the plug back into Sherlock’s body. Not until he got a chance to touch Sherlock first. Few shaky steps later, he paused before the tub, feeling the spray of water land on his feet. Sherlock pulled out of the water, and held out a hand to John. 

“Coming?”

John snorted at Sherlock’s choice of words while he plugged the tub. Water from the shower started filling up the bathtub when Sherlock sat on the other end, away from the water spraying down from the shower.

“Coming…really? Puns are unbecoming of you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“What pun?” The detective in the tub was genuinely confused at John’s amusement. 

“Never mind that. I must have switched something off in that big brain of yours.”

John was being careful of the injured knuckles that somehow lost their bandages and kissed it.

“Mmmhhhh. I get it now. It wasn’t intentional.” Sherlock hummed contentedly, staring at John kissing his knuckles.

“Of course you weren’t, your majesty.” The doctor teased as he eased his way into the tub. “We need a bigger tub.” John said as he lowered himself in between Sherlock’s legs, using his boney knees as support.

“Well observed, but as much as I want us both to fit comfortably in a bigger tub, this works better for our purpose.”

Water cascaded down in front of them, and Sherlock’s large hands roamed over John’s shoulders, over his chest, and further down the lines of his body. John shimmied forwards when Sherlock’s explorations led to his ticklish ribs. He spluttered from the downpour, and wiped the water from his eyes as Sherlock laughed. 

John leaned his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder. His lips brushed over the milky white skin on the side of Sherlock’s neck. The laughter vanished as both their breathing hitched, then deeper and longer breathes in between. Fingertips trailed in slow circles around John’s inner thighs, stomach and his lower abdomen, purposefully avoiding his cock. 

He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I was impatience, I was meant to study you earlier. The sounds you make, how your breathing hitches, the pulses on your neck, the different flavours of your skin, your scent…” Sherlock’s hands continued to tease as John slipped lower in the water.His eyes flickered downwards, roaming over the same path as his hands. Then darkened eyes landed on John’s cock that had taken a rather large interest in the ministrations.

John felt Sherlock’s hard length pressing against his back, muscles throbbing slightly every time he shifted against Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock’s pounding heartbeat against his own skin.

“Pretty sure you don’t need to study me, like-” John inhaled when Sherlock’s fingers twirled in hair around the base of his cock. “That”. 

“But I do. For everything I’ve theorised about your penis. I didn’t count for the fact that you trim.”

John’s hands reached back and held the side of Sherlock’s hips, pulling the detective closer in the water. “I could always go clean shaven.”

That caused Sherlock’s nose to wrinkle. “Not necessary. It doesn’t age as badly as the horrid moustache.”

John shook his head, and grinned at the ‘as-badly’ remark. 

He had happened to like his own look with the moustache. It made him felt outside of himself then. But he was, in fact, moustache-less with the man he loved for years. And his trimmed hair was actually quite the opposite of his blond-to greying hair on his head and face. Till this day, his trimmed hair carried a bit of blonde-reddish undertones. 

On Sherlock though, it seemed the hair on his head didn’t want to share with the rest of his body.

“I think that’s enough soaking for a week. Our skin’s pruning.”

John gently knelt forward and released the drain plug, leaving the hot shower on to keep themselves warm.

“I really didn’t like the moustache. It was like you were… someone else. Not my John.” It came out as nothing more than a tender whisper. 

John turned around at that declaration and spoke into Sherlock’s throat, nosing at the bruise on the skin. His lips trailed over it as he retorted. “Noted. Sherlock Holmes prefers his doctor’s clean shaven.”

“Just one doctor.” Sherlock grabbed John’s glutes and pulled him closer. One hand held the doctor in place while the other moved to the front, gently rubbing John’s cock, hard standing against his stomach. 

John groaned lightly when Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his cock. He hummed at the languid pace that Sherlock had set. It was part torture and pleasurable at the same time. His thumb circling the head, smearing precum around the tip, while the other four fingers and palm rubs slowly on his shaft. An obscene moan escaped his lips when Sherlock reached the other hand down from behind and massaged his balls.

John leaned his forehead harder against Sherlock’s shoulder and barely whispered, “That is lovely but-”

“Yes, John?”

Being articulate wasn’t his strongest suit even on his best days, worse when Sherlock had a hand pumping at his cock. John couldn’t set his words straight. He would just have to do it, the plan in his head. His hips jerked followed the stroking, stepping closer, lining Sherlock’s cock up against his own. He wrapped his hand around them both. Their mouths pressed together soon after.

John matched the pace, fucking into the channel of their hands interwoven around their cocks. Between the moans, John moved one hand from Sherlock’s hip, and behind. Stroking, teasing a finger up and down the line of his buttock. John broke the kiss, and whispered over Sherlock’s lips.

“The plug was a surprise. I was going to shove it back in you after you flinted about.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s eyes glinted.

John continued, ignoring Sherlock’s trying for the last word. “But seeing you in here, I changed my mind. You’re not sore, are you?”

“Always the doctor,” Sherlock remarked with an accompanied eye roll. His elegant hand released their cocks and held John under his armpits, pulling themselves on their feet. Sherlock then turned around, laid his palms flat against the wall, bent over, and presented his arse like it was on a silver platter. 

“Inspect me, John.” Sultry, deep baritone bounced off the walls, going strainght to John’s cock that gave a slight interested twitch. 

John closed his eyes for a minute. There was a loud groan, and he was pretty sure that obscene sound came from him. 

When he opened his eyes, John caught Sherlock’s eyes, full of permission, desire, love, and want--need. 

There were no other words in those seconds. Teasingly, he ran his finger over the parting, marveling at the gooseflesh underneath his fingertips, and the light bruises slowly forming on the firm, muscular globes. John’s own handprint appeared on Sherlock’s skin from when he helped Sherlock ride him hours earlier.

Something carnal within John started to stir- the feeling that this gorgeous man in front of him was his, marked inside and out. 

He parted the flesh, and found Sherlock’s pucker a tender pink. He dropped to his knees again to get a closer look, and nearly drowned from the shower once more. 

John shook the water dripping down from his hair onto his forehead. His fingertip swirled over the skin, he watched as it fluttered at him, almost as if Sherlock’s body was giving permission, tempting his finger to breach the entrance. He circled around carefully, dipping his thumb inside, earning a shuddered gasp from Sherlock. 

Inside Sherlock, was slick-- not as much as before, after the bath- but it was hot. He had fucked into the channel before. He had made-love to Sherlock, who he had thought to be untouchable. He slowly dipped his thumb in and out. Sherlock’s hips canted backwards, trying to take more in. 

“John…”

His name in that tone from Sherlock’s lips, it was beautiful.

“More.”

“More… what?”

There was a moment of silence. John was determined to make Sherlock ask properly. He stuck out his tongue and licked a wet, hot, long stripe from Sherlock’s perineum up to his entrance, and poked the tip of his tongue in, right next to his thumb.

“More, please. John.” It came out whining as John felt Sherlock shiver.

John stood up and bent over, pressing his lips to the crisscross scars littered on Sherlock’s back. He pulled out his thumb, and pushed in his index finger. He held Sherlock still, when the detective tried to move past John’s first knuckle. They needed more lube if they were going to continue. He pulled his hands away and stepped back.

Good thing the water was going on the chilly side, cooling his body temperature down, keeping his erection in check.

“Sherlock, if you want more, we need to move this to the bedroom.”

Sherlock growled. He stood up straight, glaring down at John for stopping. “Use the soap.”

John shook his head. He turned the taps and shut off the water. “You were impatient once, Sherlock. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself. I’m not going to touch you again without lube-”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to interrupt but John pressed forward. 

“Soap is not lube, and the shower is not the best place for penetrative sex. I don’t know about you, but I would rather not slip and fall then make a trip out to A & E for a busted testicle.” John scolded playfully, imagining both of them wet and wrapped in nothing but towels being lifted into an ambulance on a stretcher…

Sherlock snorted. “You’re more likely to bust your head, John.” 

He stepped out of the tub, grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his hips. John shrugged, waiting for Sherlock to make a move. 

“Either way, I fancy another go with you, just not a go that would lead to the hospital again.”

Sherlock’s eyes trailed up and down John’s body, narrowed trying to deduce John’s body language if he was serious about it. Then Sherlock stepped out of the tub, walked to John slowly. Clever fingers swiftly removed John’s towel, and let it drop to the floor.

“You won’t be needing that.”

“Good.” grinned John flirtatiously. His hand ran through his wet hair, carding his fingers backwards. “You had me worried for a second there.”

His remark earned a light chuckle from Sherlock. He grabbed John’s hand, leading them dripping wet back into the bedroom. The air smelled of sex and a mixture of their cologne. Both men stood before the bed.

“Get on the bed, John.”

John clicked his tongue, and shook his head with his arms cross in front of his chest. “You wanted more, Sherlock. We are going to do this my way.”

Without giving Sherlock an opportunity to argue, John pushed Sherlock on the bed. And Sherlock went, ungracefully in a tangle of long limbs. The mattress creaked underneath from the impact of Sherlock’s back. And the detective in question, sat up on his elbows, eyes glaring at John. 

“That was unnecessary.” His hair bounced around, wet curls in an adorable mess.

“You’re going to work yourself up into a sulk,” John countered casually, padding around the room to look for that bottle of lube they had earlier. The last he had seen it was when he fetched it out of the bedside table. He paused in his search to coax Sherlock back down on the bed. 

He hushed the protesting mouth with a kiss, and broke the kiss to say, “Let me take care of you, Sherlock.” Then John added. “Please.”

Either John’s words as a whole or the fact he had said ‘please’ made Sherlock flop backwards in surrender. One arm draped over his face. His hand waved in the air.

“Under my pillow.”

John lifted Sherlock’s pillow, and sure enough, there the bottle sat. And despite Sherlock’s calm demeanor, the detective’s cock was upright and leaking, begging to be touched again. John walked back around to Sherlock, stopping to grab trousers from the floor. 

“Budge up.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock did. John wedged the balled up trousers underneath Sherlock’s arse. Then John dropped to his knees.

“What am I suppose to do with my legs?”

John seized two pale ankles and threw each one over each of his shoulders. 

“There,” he declared, satisfied with the way Sherlock was spread out for him. “Problem solved.”

Sherlock huffed, as if the whole process was a bore. 

John’s pride wouldn’t take that. If anything, Sherlock’s tune was about to change if John had a say in it. It started with putting a hand back on Sherlock’s cock stroking the hard flushed length slowly. John popped the opening of the lube with the other hand, slicked his two fingers, and rubbed them against his thumb to warm up the thick liquid. 

He threw the bottle of lube on the floor. Then waited for Sherlock let out another insufferable sigh, which he did, and John timely brushed over Sherlock’s entrance, and stroked his cock at the same time. That made Sherlock gasp, and nearly fell from the bed in surprise. John’s pride was very much in tact now, slowly but surely unfolding Sherlock. 

He dipped his fingers inside again, savouring the heat that surrounded the tips of his fingers. John bit his bottom lip, knowing just how that heat felt around, squeezing his own cock into completion. He let out a small groan himself, and focused on what pleasure he was giving to Sherlock. It seemed the detective was as impatient as before, canting his hips to meet the smallest thrusts of John’s fingers. 

John’s two fingers disappeared up to his second knuckle. John couldn’t help but to kiss the nearest bit of skin. He sucked a bruise inside Sherlock’s inner thigh, and lightly nibbled as Sherlock started to slowly fuck himself on John’s fingers. 

“You need more before-” 

John couldn’t finish his sentence. Words failed him just from feeling the way Sherlock’s body welcomed him. He caressed inside the tight heat, scissoring his fingers, stretching the muscles in hopes that Sherlock’s body would welcome him again. 

Instead, John cleared his throat. “Still in a rush?”

John brushed over Sherlock’s prostate before the detective could even answer with words. Sherlock apparently answered with the arch of his back, and a gasp of “Oh fuck” from that posh mouth, which would forever haunt John’s fantasies.

“That is the idea,” John remarked in the same tone as if they were talking about the weather. “Only if you’re up for it.”

The only tell that Sherlock was still cognizant were the two pale hands motioning to Sherlock’s cock, now a pinkish-purple and leaking precum into a gathered pile. John chuckled darkly, crooked his fingers to rub against Sherlock’s prostate again, and was considering milking it for all it’s worth. 

John mouthed at Sherlock’s thigh again while his free hand pumped over Sherlock’s cock as his other hand massaged Sherlock’s prostate. He worked on stretching and pleasuring Sherlock. The squelching sounds that came from it was obscene, flipping John’s stomach from a new level arousal he had never felt before.

“Hurry up John!” Sherlock barked impatiently.

“If I were you…I would be a little nicer in asking me to finish you.” John arched an eyebrow while both his hands slowed down, the fingers inside Sherlock’s tight heat purposefully avoiding the bundle of nerves.

“Please John. I need more. Please…” The look that Sherlock threw him, along with the words, John knew he couldn’t resist. 

John hummed. “Better.” And resumed his earlier strokes. He can feel Sherlock’s muscles flutter around his fingers, a sign that he was close to the edge. As soon as Sherlock’s body stiffened, John backed away, maybe pulling his fingers out of Sherlock a little too quickly…

“John. Oh, god. For fuck’s sake-” Sherlock groaned from the loss.

“Wow. You’re still…open, wet…So hot.” John continued to trace his fingers around the hole, murmured sweet nothings against Sherlock’s thigh.

A wriggle made the doctor snort and rubbed his palms around Sherlock’s leaking cock, obviously teasing. Sherlock wouldn’t have any of that which he then quickly remedied the situation with his pale hand wrapped around his own length, about to stroke himself hard and fast, chasing to orgasm…

“Don’t come.” John stared at Sherlock’s long violinist fingers wrapped around that flushed cock, desperate to come, suddenly holding it tight around the base to pull himself back from what could’ve been a gorgeous orgasm.

“Then hurry the hell up.” 

John reached into bedside table drawer and pulled out another sleeve of condoms. He took his fingers away from Sherlock’s entrance, earning a groan in complaint from Sherlock.

“Hold on, love. I’ll get there,” John soothed. “Condom first.”

“Forget the condom.”

John rolled his eyes and ignored more of Sherlock’s complaining moans. John’s hands trembled as he opened the foil and rolled the condom over himself. He quickly grabbed the lube bottle and he pumped over himself once, shuddering from the sensation. He was as pent up as Sherlock and he stood, he not wanting to tease either of them anymore. Fixing Sherlock’s position to have each of Sherlock’s legs over his arms. John leaned forward, lined his throbbing cock against Sherlock’s opening and gently pushed in deeper, deeper and deeper until he was fully seated.

The tight heat welcomed him easily, surrounding him in perfection. John closed his eyes, not wanting to shoot off before actually getting started. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips, holding him still for his own good as John pulled almost all the way out, leaving only the head of his cock seated within Sherlock’s first ring of muscles.

“Relax.” He wiped one hand on the bedsheet before reaching towards Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and pushed his hair back. He held his arm beside Sherlock’s face, caressing his lover’s flushed cheeks. He gave a few shallow thrusts in different angles, finding Sherlock’s sweet spot. 

Sherlock let out a deep groan as John slid in deeper. He paused when Sherlock shuddered under his hands, feeling a wall of muscle pushing against his thrusts. He paused, waiting for the detective to get used to his size once more. 

“You’re doing wonderfully, Sherlock,” John praised between biting his cheek, using the pain as a method to keep from coming. “Just a bit more if you’re up for it.”

“Of course I’m bloody up for it, John!” snapped Sherlock with one hand furiously stroking over his cock and the other hand pulling at his hair. “Move!”

So, John did.

He thrusted in earnest. As Sherlock’s hand sped up, John felt the muscles give in and loosened up just enough for him to push his cock all the way in. He pounded his annoying git into the mattress, going straight for his prostate every single thrust.

“Oh John! Mmpphhhh!" Sherlock held his breath for a good four seconds when he came, spurting streaks of cum up along his stomach, chest, and even got a few drops onto John’s arm beside his face.

John felt the muscles clench tight around his cock. He dropped his face onto Sherlock’s shoulder, not caring if his face would be covered in Sherlock’s semen, instantly folding his lover into half and fucked the tight heat viciously.

“Fuck. Sherlock. You’re so tight... so …perfect!” He pushed a few more times with every word, riding out both of their orgasms before he finally collapsed onto Sherlock, face on chest, chest on Sherlock’s stomach, and the detective’s hand still holding his softening cock in between them.   
They stayed there until they both were starting to stick together and breathing hard. He found Sherlock’s hand, and their fingers interlaced together. They laid there in silence, John listening intently to Sherlock’s pounding heartbeat. Both men relished in each other’s heaving bodies until could breathe normally again.

John turned his head, finding Sherlock’s eyes closed, mouth slightly agape. It was then when the detective let out a soft snore and John shook his head. Unbelievable. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. And once more, John got up, slowly pulled his softened member out while holding onto the condom. After a quick knot and the condom properly disposed of, he fetched a flannel from the bathroom and gingerly tended to Sherlock. 

He wiped drying ejaculate from Sherlock’s stomach, his face and did his best to clean away the lube from both of their skin. Maybe it would call for another, a more thorough shower since their first one did exactly what a shower didn’t. He tucked Sherlock into bed, pulling a thin sheet of cloth over him. Then John tossed the flannel into the hamper before flicking off the light and snuggled next to Sherlock under the sheet. 

His stomach growled angrily. Next time they woke up, it was definitely time to eat and he would make Sherlock do the same before getting distracted with each other. John slid closer to Sherlock, closed his eyes, and it was then he heard a rather large thump from downstairs. Quickly, followed with what sounded like Mrs. Hudson’s voice. 

John groaned when another thump, louder than the first echoed from downstairs. He got out of bed deciding that he should help her in whatever she was doing. He grabbed one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns out of the wardrobe and covered himself up. Mrs. Hudson did not need to see that part of him. 

He walked through the flat, noting to put away his gun when he returned from downstairs. There was another thump when he reached the lower landing. John knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Mrs. Hudson is everything alright in there? Do you need help with your bins again?”

Just he was about to tap the door again, it swung open. John took in Mrs. Hudson’s shuffled appearance, her wide-eyes and the dark flat behind her. John grinned. 

“What are you-”

Mrs. Hudson cut him off, as she glanced over her shoulder. Her hands pushed at his shoulder, “John, dear. I’m fine. You should-”

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson was shoved aside, and crashed into the wall. 

John dove for her before she landed on the floor. A shadow fell over them. John turned his head, and was met with pain. He knew that he was on the floor now, and he watched with lights dancing in his eyes as Mrs. Hudson was dragged back into her darkened flat by someone. 

He got to his feet and followed. 

There was another struck of pain over his brow. John fell to his knees with a wave of dizziness. Then there was a smack on the back of his head, bringing him to the ground on all fours. He knew the lights he saw were from his head, but this was not the time to worry about it…yet. 

Something pushed at the middle of his back, and John stubbornly remained as he was. Until something kicked him, a boot, judging from the impact on his ribs. He went to eat a mouthful of carpet, blessed that Mrs. Hudson did hover every day.

He turned his head, “What are you-”

Before John could finish, the boot caught him straight in the jaw, throwing his head back in an awkward angle. 

And darkness covered the twinkling lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Any guesses to what's going to happen next?


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Appearances, BAMF, decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was one of my favorite chapters to write. Hope ya'll like it too. Thank you for all the kudos/bookmarks/and comments. I've been loving them! I also thank my beta whitehart who's been amazing! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 30

“John…” Someone’s calling my name.

A groan slipped from his lips as he shifted uncomfortably.

“John…dear.”

His head throbbed in complaint as he lifted his head, stirring into full consciousness. The last thing John recalled was being attacked inside Mrs. Hudson’s flat, kicked, and blacking out, leaving Sherlock sleeping upstairs. 

What if…

“John? Are you awake?”

He shook his head, gathering that he was being addressed. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” he slurred back. “Is’t that you? Sherlock?”

“Oh good. You are awake. I was a bit concerned for you. No, Sherlock isn’t here, poor man is probably worried sick that you’re gone. Me on the other hand,” Mrs. Hudson sighed dramatically. “For someone who’s observant about my comings and goings, neither of you noticed I was missing.”

“Thanks for that…” he muttered back as he opened his eyes and ignoring the sweeping dizziness as he took in the surroundings. Then he added, “Sorry Mrs. Hudson, this case has been-”

John’s words trailed off while he looked around. Dark grey room carried slim light coming from the small window a bit higher up than normal windows. They were most likely held in a basement. There was one wooden door at the far wall without a doorknob. It wasn’t as if he could get over there to see if it was locked. 

His line of sight slowly found Mrs. Hudson, sitting in a chair across from him. Her eyes closed, and her mouth was set in a thin line, as if she were in pain. John did recall the nasty hit that she took before he had blacked out. Hopefully her head was feeling better than his. 

“Are you alright Mrs. Hudson? You’re not in any pain, are you?”

“I’m fine. You’re a bit indecent, I thought I would grant you some privacy,” replied Mrs. Hudson with a grin. “Isn’t that one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns?”

John looked down at himself. He also noted he that he was, in fact, tied to a chair, and a bit indecent with all of his skin on display since he forwent his pants upstairs back at the flat. And his gun was still on the kitchen table, which was stupid in hindsight. The rope or whatever it was, bit into his bare wrists and his ankles. He shifted uselessly to cover himself with the dressing gown. It didn’t work. 

“Ah. Well, yes it is.”

“I thought so. The two of you got yourselves sorted out then?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wonderful.”

And she did sound very pleased for them, regardless of their current situation.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” John cleared his throat and his mouth was parched. He must have been out for sometime. “How long we’ve been here?”

“I lost track for me, they’ve been moving me all around and they just brought you here. They had to carry you inside and she knocked you out again, though I doubt you remember it much of that.”

“She?”

“M-”

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth gaped without words as the door across the room opened with a distressed creak, and in walked a familiar face. One John hadn’t seen for two months. 

Then another person followed through the open doorway. Him, John didn’t know or recognise, and he would have remembered someone with a vivid scar, such as the one on the man’s left cheek. The man leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Apparently, he wasn’t running this show. John turned back to his ‘used-to-be wife’. 

“Mary,” breathed John, noticing her bright red hair, curled, which was different from her usual blonde, that she wore before she disappeared. Something about her facial structure was altered. John couldn’t put his finger on it. But from whatever it was, she could have been a different person from afar, if it hadn’t been the gun in her hand, the same gun she had aimed at him before and her grin.

“Hello John,” she greeted. “You and I have a bit to chat about.”

John’s eyes canted to the man at the wall, and then up and down Mary herself. She didn’t look the same as before and it took a second more to figure it out. Her face was thinner, seems like she had lost quite a bit of weight, and the weight mostly disappeared from her abdomen. She didn’t look pregnant anymore.

And that reminded him of his daughter. He felt anger rising within him. 

“Yes,” John gritted out and pulled at his hands. 

“I’m apparently not going anywhere anytime soom. Might as well have a chat. Let’s start with why are Mrs. Hudson and I tied up like hostage instead of having a civil conversation over a cuppa? Or we could talk about where the hell is my daughter? Or we can even start at the beginning, yeah? Where the hell have you disappeared off to?”

“Our daughter, Rosemund Mary is safe.”

John arched his eyebrows. “Rosemund?” he echoed lightly, the sarcasm in his tone carried in the air. “Is that her name now? What happened to Catherine?”

“We moved on from that.”

“Oh? Did we? I must have missed that part of the conversation while you were gone, it’s difficult to talk about baby names when you’ve been wherever the fuck you have been the last two months, Mary.”

“This is a waste of time, Rose,” stated the man from the wall. “Just make the trade and be done with him. It wouldn’t matter soon afterwards. You heard what he said.”

Mrs. Hudson gasped and murmured worriedly. “A trade-”

The man at the wall glared at her. “Shut up, you bint. You were just a lure for this one, and he’ll be a lure for-”

“That’s enough, AJ,” Mary ordered sharply. “After this, we’ll both be cleared.” 

John cleared his throat. “No, let ‘A.J’ speak, Rose.” He bit sharply, emphasizing the name ‘Rose’ because apparently he was deemed a special kind of idiot who couldn’t make the connection. Mary had named their daughter after herself. He bit the inside of his cheek. There was nothing he could do about that now. Right at this very moment, he needed to know something else. 

“What kind of trade?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, John,” replied Mary with a light smile as she walked to the door. That smile was something that didn’t settle well with John. “I have a call to make. AJ, stay with them.”

Her boots clicked on the cement floor as she disappeared through the doorway, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson with the man known as AJ. Maybe he could get some answers out of him. For all the authority he could muster, while being completely exposed, John stared the other man down, glaring--. 

“How do you know Mary?”

“You meant Rose.” He corrected John mockingly. “How much do you know about your wife?” 

“Enough to know that she wouldn’t be my wife,” John retorted. “Not really.”

AJ nodded approvingly as if John’s remark was a secret password amongst them. He pushed away from the wall and walked in circles around them, talking as he went. 

“She did say that she gave you and your detective boyfriend the flash drive after she had shot him. Also said that you torched it in a fireplace, bad move on your part.”

John couldn’t argue about the ‘boyfriend’ bit nor about the ‘bad move on burning the flash drive’ when it was a bad move considering their circumstances now. Also considering that Mary--or Rose’s past seemed to have come back to haunt them repeatedly. 

Instead, he shrugged. “People make mistakes.”

“They do. On the flash drive had information of Rose, myself, and the rest of the team from our freelance days. Paid to kill or rescue, whichever job offered the largest amount. You could’ve known everything about us but you didn’t. Pathetic.”

Now, he wasn’t pathetic. John wanted a normal life, with a safe wife, and well… that turned out to be shoddy. At the time, burning the flash drive was the most logical solution. But the problems of her unknown past always seemed to be popping up. John sat in silence, stewing a bit, but waited for the man to go on. 

When it was obvious AJ was finished talking, John broke the silence with a spiteful jab. “Your scar, one of the high bidders job gone wrong then?”

AJ huffed at John, and ran a finger over the scarred face. He circled closer to Mrs. Hudson’s chair, earning a squeak from the older woman. Then AJ migrated in the space between John and Mrs. Hudson’s chairs. He smiled and hunched over as he spoke to John, flashing the gun fixed on his hip. 

“Touché, Doctor. Let me tell you secret just between us: Rose and I trained together. I know all her skills, abilities, and talents. She knows mine. I also know there was no way that Rose wouldn’t shoot to kill. If she hesitated for a mere second, that was her shooting him nicely. He died, didn’t he?”

John scowled venomously, and he bit out. “Not for long.”

Whatever AJ was going to counter with was lost in a surprised garble when an arm fixed over his windpipe. 

He flailed, trying to straighten and was almost upright when a heel appeared between his legs. John cringed in automatic sympathy before not giving a damn. He watched in utter horror as the heel came back for multiple kicks. At the sixth kick –not that John was keeping count - AJ dropped completely to his knees, cupping his jewels, and flopped over on the floor. 

AJ’s watery eyes were glaring at Mrs. Hudson up until she delivered a hard punch to the side of his face. Then he flopped motionless like a ragdoll, knocked out cold on the concrete.

John just gaped, in surprise, awe, and pure admiration in which Mrs. Hudson took down a freelance assassin before remembering that she was supposed to be tied up. 

“How did you get free?” John asked as Mrs. Hudson fixed her clothes before going behind John. He felt her cold fingers struggling to pick at the ropes.

Then she sighed, and went back to AJ on the floor. John watched as Mrs. Hudson yanked off AJ’s shoe before throwing it over her shoulder in favour of the knife that fell out of it. Then she flicked open the knife and started at John’s ropes. 

“I’m a widow of a drug dealer, John Watson. This certainly isn’t my first time being kidnapped.”

‘Or kidnapping.’ That was left unsaid, but the predatory look in her eyes told John what he needed (or not) to know.

While he was still trying to process what happened, the ropes loosened, and he pulled free. He rubbed his wrist once before giving Mrs. Hudson a hug. “You’re amazing, Mrs. Hudson.”

And decided that it was much better to be on her side than not. 

She patted his back. “Thank you, dear. But, you may want to cover up for this next bit.”

And he did, fixing Sherlock’s dressing gown over himself. 

Mrs. Hudson worked on the ropes around his ankles. A ring glittered around her finger, sparkling in the ray of sunlight from the small window.

“Isn’t that Sherlock’s engagement ring--? I thought you lost it in a card game, Sherlock had said that’s why you were bringing extra biscuits… not that I’m complaining, you make absolutely delicious pastries…and tea…and you take care of us so well, always making sure were well fed…like we’re your…” He looked down and noticed the landlady glaring at him. “…sons. Sorry, I’m babbling.” 

“I wouldn’t think you would complain about it,” said Mrs. Hudson as she patted him once on the knee. “Lucky I won it back from Mrs. Turner, before they kidnapped me. I wouldn’t have been able to cut the ropes without it.”

Again, John had another moment of surprise and awe for Mrs. Hudson. “You cut the ropes with the engagement ring?”

“It took me a bit longer, old hands and cold weather. They didn’t bother to tie my feet, I had mentioned about my poor hip. I’ll need another herbal soother after all this.”

John grinned and gently took the knife from his ‘not-housekeeper’ and worked on the ropes around his ankles. He freed one ankle and worked on the last rope. 

“I’ll get you anything you want, Mrs. Hudson. A lifetime of herbal soothers.”

There was a shuffling sound as Mrs. Hudson laughed lightly. “There’s no need for that I have plenty left back home. Are you almost done with your ankles, dear?”

The last rope fell away just as Mrs. Hudson’s words echoed in the room. John stood up, stretching. Unfortunately, he was probably going to feel the wooden chair for days. 

“I’m all finished,” he answered and squatted down at AJ, plucking the gun from his hip holster. John checked the safety and the clip, which was on and full. He stood back up again, and glanced down at Mrs. Hudson, who had her nose in a disapproving wrinkle. 

“You’re not finished looking like that.” Her eyes flicked down pointedly at AJ before picking up the discarded knife. “His clothes would fit.”

John shook his head. “I’m not wearing some bloke’s dirty pants.”

“Well, at least put on his trousers so I don’t have to see your naked John Thomas flapping about. Although, Sherlock must be very pleased-”

John didn’t hesitate, anything to prevent Mrs. Hudson from finishing that sentence. 

He quickly stripped AJ of his black trousers, and pulled them on himself. John put on AJ’s shoes as well. The trousers were a bit tight in the crotch and the shoes pinched, but at least he wasn’t starkers anymore. And blissfully, Mrs. Hudson couldn’t remark about anything else.

“Now, we are ready to go,” he whispered, when he could hear telltale clicks in the distance. He pushed up the sleeves of Sherlock’s dressing and rolled them up. The last thing he wanted was a scorched hand. 

“Shouldn’t we tie him up?” asked Mrs. Hudson. “We don’t want him coming up behind us.”

John looked down at the half-naked man, robbed of his trousers and shoes. A part of him really wanted to throw AJ in the chair for a few days and see how he liked it as revenge on Mrs. Hudson’s behalf. But they didn’t have the time. 

“If you can find something to tie him with,” he answered, thinking of the wasted tatters of rope they had just cut through. John kept an eye on the doorway, waiting as the heel clicks grew faster. “Maybe just the hands and feet.”

There was a distinctive sound of tearing cloth, and John turned, spotting Mrs. Hudson cutting then ripping her dress and quickly tied AJ up. It was quick and practiced. John cleared his throat. 

“Not your first time tying someone up?” he asked, thinking that she was a widow of a drug dealer, and had said that this wasn’t her first kidnapping.

“It was an exploration stage,” Mrs. Hudson whispered. “I still prefer handcuffs.”

John grimaced. “Not what I meant.”

Her hand held onto John’s shoulder. “Sorry, dear,” she whispered behind him.

John clicked off the gun safety as he slowly went through the open doorway. “Stay behind me, Mrs. Hudson.”

Being as brilliant as she was, Mrs. Hudson didn’t say a word as response. At least she knew when to stop talking. If this had been with Sherlock, the git would chatter away. John trained the gun down the hallway, eyeing the upcoming door on their right. Mrs. Hudson’s hand dug into his shoulder when John reached for the doorknob. She, like him, was probably waiting for the attack when it opened.

But it didn’t. The doorknob wouldn’t turn. It was locked. The hand on John’s shoulder loosened, sending flares of pain throughout his back. Yeah, being in the chair did not help his shoulder any. But thankfully his adrenaline was slowly rising, and the pain on his shoulder eased into light throbbing. 

He continued to worry that someone was on the other side of the locked door, and could unlock it. His mind switched into being an army captain and was making tactical escape plans while analyzing their surroundings.

“Mrs. Hudson, if you could watch our backs?”

“Already was.”

They went past the door with a sense of paranoia and apprehension at the approaching open doorway ahead. The room ahead was barely lit, shining a highlighted path into the hallway. John could hear Mary talking lowly and pausing every so often. Her heels clicked as if she were pacing, which she did when she was angry, at least that would help them figure out where she was. And if she were still making that call, they would have a chance of surprise. 

Things were looking up for them. 

John squeezed Mrs. Hudson’s hand, and whispered lowly over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the doorway, hoping that she could hear. “Wait here on my signal, and watch your back.”

There was a huff, a curse, and a solid crunch when John hugged the wall shrouded with darkness. The curtains were drawn and the light came from the lamp in the corner. In the middle of the floor, John could see that Mary had destroyed the mobile that she had been on. The remains of it were on the white-carpeted floor. But where was she? 

John aimed his gun at the other dark corner of the room, and found a glint of metal aiming back at him through the shadows. John stepped into the light, still pointing the gun in that direction. 

“You hesitated, Mary.”

“It’s not hesitation this time. It’s decisiveness.” Her voice pierced through the silence. There was a little quiver, but laced with hardness. 

John’s eyebrows arched upwards. “Oh? Just what are you deciding on?”

As she stepped closer out of the shadows, her aim moved to his chest, over his heart. He held steady on full alert, finger pulling closer to himself on the trigger.

She shook her head. “It’s not me who has to decide, John. It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So? Why do you think she's back? *Give me your thoughts!*


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder, Gunshot, Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! I want to say thank you for all the comments thus far, and we are entering into the last chapters terrority if I have it my way. But the muse could have other plans. It's been amazing. I do have ideas for a sequel- do let me know if a sequel would be something of interest. I can't really say what the sequel would be about outright, but there's been some hints throughout the story. An awesome thank you to my beta whitehart, who does an amazing job as always!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 31

The dry laughter that escaped John’s throat was sarcastic and disbelieving. What exactly was Mary expecting him decide on during a gun standoff? Whether or not to shoot Mary or let her walk away? Or be shot himself? It was all more than a little confusing. And something in the back of his mind told him that it would probably become more complicated as they continued to aim at each other. 

John asked lightly. “What exactly are my options, Mary? To shoot you or be shot… again? I can’t say I was fond of the first experience.”

“No. We’ll settle this,” Mary stated, motioning with the gun in a little wave between them. “After we finish having a chat.”

“I thought we did that already. You refused to talk and went to make a call instead. Leaving AJ to babysit us. For your information, he’s still alive, if you cared any. I don’t go around ‘nicely shooting’ everyone, especially making a point not to shoot old teammates or one’s best man.” John gave her a pointed look afterwards. 

Mary shrugged, John’s words figuratively rolled past her, and they obviously meant nothing to her. It’s not like John could tell now. When she was still pretending to be average…John could. Now, seeing the woman he had married, then divorce after two months, no, John was pretty sure his words meant nothing to her... this was coming from the woman who never let him have a say with anything to begin with. 

“You’re a good man, John. We both know that. I’m relying on your moral compass to…”

John interrupted, cutting her off. “You’re relying on me, now?” he asked incredulously. “What happen to this piss two months ago, Mary?”

Mary had the gall to roll her eyes at him. John’s anger began to simmer underneath his skin. 

“Oh, get over it. It was only two months! Sherlock left you for two years. I had thought you would easily forgive me for the abandonment. I was wrong. I couldn’t have you hanging off my gun arm,” she answered. “You would only slow me down.”

“I am not and wasn’t married to Sherlock. He can’t have my child, and you did!” John paused for a second when he imagined Sherlock’s ‘you’re an idiot’ look while saying ‘I don’t have a uterus, John. Couldn’t have your child even if I wanted to’. His eyebrows met the middle of his forehead when he cringed, thinking about Mary with a gun while carrying his daughter. “What did you go with having a need for a gun?”

“It was a rescue.”

Her answer made John pause, and he blinked slowly, taking in the information. “I don’t understand. Who did you need to rescue?”

“AJ.”

“Why?”

Mary moved slightly, walking towards the lamp, and sighed. “I’m getting tired, John. Can’t we just sit? It’s been too long…”

“There’s a floor right there, a perfect spot for sitting. You should stop moving.” John snapped, he motioned his gun to the floor.

And which apparently, answered his suspicion that Mary wasn’t tired at all, and she returned back to her previous spot. It seems that he caught her out. Good. 

“Going back to my question, why did AJ need rescuing?” 

To his surprise, Mary lowered her gun with a sigh. “Because only one person in this entire world is allowed to kill Sherlock Holmes. Anyone else tries or does, without his direct orders, answers to him.”

“By him, you mean…”

“Jim Moriarty,” which was answered in the same tone as Sherlock’s ‘obviously’, before Mary pressed on. “He had AJ…”

“So being pregnant, you thought it was a fantastic idea to stage a rescue mission?”

“I’m hardly the first woman who has been able to carry a child. It doesn’t make me an invalid,” Mary snapped. “The three of us made it out, alright.”

There was also something in Mary’s tone that implied more, and John waited for more while carrying on visions of gunfire of the rescue. John shook his head. As much as he despised Mary at that moment, he was unable to voice out the ugly names he was calling her inside of his head.

“And?” It was all John could voice out in a whisper without lashing out or breaking down.

“My water broke afterwards.”

“That was fucking stupid,” John countered darkly, words slipping from his mouth. “You endangered our daughter!”

Mary scoffed at him. Her mouth morphed into a sneer. “Fuck off, John. When we met, you said you never wanted children, so don’t-”

“DON’T WHAT? GIVE A DAMN?” bellowed John. His words slashed through the air, and added to the tension growing between them. He sniffed, and shifted his feet, glaring. “It took two of us to get here…I should get some say in EVERYTHING ABOUT HER!”

Mary shrugged again. “No, it took a combination of one drunken night, head cold medication, and you having a round of ‘ignore Sherlock’ for the umpteenth time. You wouldn’t touch me otherwise. We both know it.”

And they both did.

“I wanted a normal life, a boring life. You couldn’t have given me that once Sherlock was back in your life.”

John knew it, but he pressed forward in his argument. “Regardless-”

Marry immediately cut him off. “AJ and Rosie are my family. I would do anything for them. Moriarty is after me, after Rosie because of what I did. We’ll never be safe unless there’s a trade.”

“What kind of trade then? Who for whom?”

“Sherlock’s life for Rosemund’s safety.”

A flare of ice went down his spine. Then he recalled what AJ had said earlier. Mrs. Hudson was the bait to trap him, so… “I’m the lure for Sherlock. You were going to hand me over to Moriarty. You were going to give him both of us.”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“You cold and calculative-”

“You ought to be used to that by now. Sherlock-”

John scoffed, then laughed wryly. “Don’t you dare imply Sherlock would do the same as you. For all that he does, he’s never tried to send up anyone being handed over to that manic psychopath! He’d kill us, did you ever think that?”

“Yes.”

Her one-worded answers just added to the fuel in John’s anger. “It didn’t matter much then? I didn’t fail to notice that our lives would be saving your skin too.”

“Someone will have to raise Rosie. A child shouldn’t be without her mother.”

“But being without her father is alright in your book? Jesus! You’re a piece of work!”

“You’re a good man, John Watson. I know you’ll make the right choice.”

John shook his head. “This isn’t a choice. You know it’s not, Mary.”

It was then that Mary raised her gun at him, aiming over his heart again. “It is what it is, John. Rosemund needs to be safe. I will do anything to accomplish it. One half-done detective for an innocent new life.”

“And what it is, is shit,” John disputed. “Sherlock is your friend. And what makes you think Moriarty will leave you alone after he has us? This is just like Magnusson all over again. People who know about your past will keep tracking you, you’ll never be safe.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take, John. We have to meet him.”

“So, this is it then?” John asked, nodding at their guns pointed at each other. “I go, never meeting my daughter, never getting to say goodbye?”

“I’m sorry.” And she did sound a bit sorry.

John sighed and whispered. “Me too.” 

Then he dropped down to his knees and pulled the trigger.

There was an echo of gunshots in the small room, and scream of pain. Moving on adrenaline, John rolled forward on the ground, smacking Mary’s gun from out of reach while she held her leg, bleeding on white carpet.

“You shot me!”

John stood and tucked the gun into his waistband. He walked over to collect Mary’s gun, and Mrs. Hudson beat him to it.

“You should consider yourself lucky that he didn’t kill you, dear,” she retorted as she tucked the gun into her pocket. “Considering what you put our poor Sherlock through.”

“Shut up!” Mary snapped. “Go make yourself useful and call for help. There should be another mobile on AJ, in his coat.”

John held up his hand, signaling for Mrs. Hudson to wait on that. But she didn’t make any immediate movement to go bring the mobile for Mary. John wasn’t feeling that kind either. “Actually, before we fetch that mobile…I have a few things to ask you.”

“Mycroft has Rosemund. He’s keeping her safe.”

John rubbed his chin and smacked his lips together. Now, that wasn’t answer he was expecting, and definitely not too pleased with it, considering they’ve been at each other’s throats about Sherlock. And the pompous prick knew all along where his daughter was. Next time, he sees Mycroft, they were… once again… going to have some words.

“That was one of my questions, yes. Another is, where were you going to meet Moriarty for the trade?”

“I don’t know yet. I was waiting for a call.”

John’s eyes flickered down to the remains of Mary’s mobile. “Shouldn’t have destroyed that then.”

“Perhaps, I didn’t want big brother and the rest of MI6 tracking us down before I could make the trade.”

“You didn’t plan for us escaping, did you?” John asked.

Mary scoffed and she glared. “Of course not. I have the better skill set.”

“Well, obviously not, and that hardly stops you from bleeding on the floor,” Mrs. Hudson stated flatly before adding. “That’s going to stain.”

John cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hudson, if you wouldn’t mind to-”

“Of course, hardly any different from when I get Sherlock’s his mobile,” she groused.

John waited until Mrs. Hudson disappeared through the open doorway. He nodded to Mary’s wound. “How is it?”

“It’s a graze, I’ll live.”

A silence hung between them. John didn’t want it to come to this. Hell, it would’ve been easier if Mary hadn’t appeared back into their lives at all. But here they were, a divorced, bloody train wreck. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, Mary.”

The name that he knew her by seemed so foreign now, much like the woman that he had sworn to have the rest of his life with. It seemed long ago now. “Or, should I call you, Rose now?”

“Mary’s fine. I always liked Mary, for what it’s worth.”

John nodded, swallowing heavily now. He had liked her, even loved her at a point in time. Probably still a little bit now because of what she had done for him. She, in her own way, had helped him move on from Sherlock, and made him believe in something resembling like a future. . “Me too. I-”

Mary snorted. “You said that last time, not going to shoot me again, are you?”

“I hope I don’t have to,” answered John. “But I will.”

“The pool.” Mary said with a sigh. John was about to ask what she meant when she continued. “Not that you knew it at the time but I was one of those red lights on you before. That’s his meeting point, tonight, after the pool is closed.”

He ignored the fact that Mary was at the pool showdown years before, aiming a gun at him to kill. Instead he questioned sharply. “Does Sherlock know? Is he in danger, right now?”

She shook her head, shrugging. “I don’t know. I doubt it considering Moriarty doesn’t have you as bait yet. I wouldn’t set up the plan without the bait.” 

“You’re also not Moriarty. The psychopath probably has back up plans for everything.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Mary asked.

It wasn’t really a choice for him, not really. It wasn’t a choice and everyone who knew about the ridiculous trade, knew the same. He had to protect people, his daughter and Sherlock. “I’m not going for you.”

“What about Sherlock? The moment that Moriarty has you, Sherlock will-”

“Not if I take care of Moriarty first.”

“That’s suicide.”

“And that’s my choice. Considering what you were going to do was murder.”

Mrs. Hudson walked back into the room, massaging her knuckles with a disgruntled complaint and mobile in hand. “Here’s the mobile, John. He tried to b-”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said as he grabbed the mobile from her. He punched in the number that he knew by heart, and waited with anticipation as it rung.

“Sherlock Holmes-” John sighed with relief at Sherlock’s calm baritone, which the detective’s tone immediately changed at John’s sigh. 

“John!? Are you alright? Are you hurt?” John could hear Sherlock’s anxiety over the phone, which could only mean he was worried, and had expected something to happen. 

“Mycroft’s got me locked down at Baker Street like a prisoner in Belmarsh. Apparently his other best people were on their way to find you. What good is surveillance if you get yourself kidnapped right under the government’s rather large nose?” asked Sherlock. His voice had pulled away from the mobile, lowly bickering with another voice, John recoginsed it to be Mycroft’s. 

Before John could say anything, Sherlock asked, “How are Mary and dear Mrs. Hudson?”

John beamed brightly. “How’d you figure?” His mind wandered off, thinking about how Sherlock reacted when the detective woke up to find John missing, finding his gun untouched in the flat, rushing downstairs to find Mrs. Hudson’s place trashed…

“… and a coat fiber, a footprint, and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t touched her herbal soothers.” Seems like Sherlock figured it out a different way.

John snapped back into reality and added, “And Mycroft told you.”

“When are you coming back to Baker Street?” 

Leave it to Sherlock to change the topic, and to the hardest one to have. John swallowed heavily. “Sherlock…”

“You’re planning to do something stupid.”

“Yes. I am.” There was no point of lying to him. “Now, let me say this.”

“Mycroft’s people are tracking this mobile right now, John. Whatever idiotic scheme you’re planning, it can wait until you’re back at Baker Street, and we can think of a new plan.”

“We don’t have time for a new plan.” 

“John… don’t… we swore…” His voice cracked, and John’s heart throbbed in pain. It hurts, but he imagined losing Sherlock. He cannot lose Sherlock again, not until they’ve lived a long and happy life together. Until the end of their lives, if he had a choice, he swore to himself he will not let that happen. 

“I know we did. I know, and I’m sorry. I love you, Sherlock.”

He gave Mrs. Hudson the mobile with Sherlock’s voice still calling for him. It took everything he had to walk away and not turn back, heading for the door. “Mycroft’s people will be here soon to take you back to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson. Mary… do make sure your leg is seen to and have a nice life.”

“You’re breaking his heart, John Watson,” Mrs. Hudson called after him.

John pointedly ignored her, opened the door and walked into the daylight. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, face tilted up facing the sky. He was grounded by the warmth of the sun. It felt like he was back in Afghanistan. His posture stiffened, his legs heavy as he marched down the road towards Moriarty. He was ready to fight.

This will be his battle to win the war. 

He would kill for Sherlock.

He would die for Sherlock. 

He would break Sherlock’s heart. 

But in order to save Sherlock’s life, he was willing to risk it all. 

Life would mean nothing without his sun, his consulting detective.

And John would surrender his own to make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Angst. Oh, it hurts.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soldier, Plans, Hostage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! It's me. I want to say thank to everyone who's commented/kudos/and bookmarked. We are getting to the end here! I also want to say thank you my beta Whitehart, who made this chapter awesome.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 32

John’s head still echoed with the broken sounds of Sherlock’s voice. The obvious crack in the worried baritone over the tinny static. It was something he never wanted to hear again from Sherlock, especially when John himself was the cause. Guilt, sadness, and heartbreak drummed behind his hardened resolve. There was a personal war in London that he needed to win and the winner takes all that he holds dear. There was no doubt he would try his damnedest to win. He had too.

He pointedly ignored the CCTV cameras turning slowly like a pair of eyes watching his every step… which they probably were. 

He also ignored every phone booth with quickened steps, magically began ringing as he approached and silenced when he passed. 

A part of John waited for the pain in the arse familiar black car to kidnap him from the roadside. It could try. All of these methods only cemented John’s resolve. 

Someone had to protect them. Because Sherlock, his wonderful brilliant detective had a point. If John was kidnapped at 221 B under surveillance, what’s to stop it from happening again?

The answer was fairly obvious: Nothing.

John could only hope Mycroft knew it too. The pompous prick probably did, and John only hoped that Mycroft would keep them both save.

He marched over the pavement, turning around the corner into the busy main road. John stared straight ahead, soldiering on through the gawkers who glanced over his rather odd uniform. Sherlock’s blue dressing gown caught into the chill breeze, undoubtedly showing off the gun that John had tucked away in the small of his back into the stolen too-tight trousers. The many gasps told him he was a sight. John broke his stance for a second, and his eyes flickered over to a store window. His uniform was a sight all right, but more so was the purpling bruise across his jaw, and crawled up his cheek. 

Well, that explained some of it. 

John pressed on after the glance. There was zero sense in marveling over his wounds as it may not matter much in the end. Sunlight shone on his face, but he couldn’t feel any warmth. Couldn’t feel much for that matter. Which was fine. Perfectly fine, in the instance that he knew either himself or Moriarty would be snuffed from this day by nightfall. 

He also knew he needed a decent plan, in order for him not be snuffed out. Starting with how many bullets are in his gun, and where exactly Moriarty was, so John could blow his brains out. Then take his pulse. 

The gruesome, yet effective method.

Even with that thought of finishing Moriarty, John couldn’t help but to notice the sudden appearances of faces, staring at him from alleyways as he walked. Faces of the young, the old, men, women. At least five pairs of eyes stared at him, bluntly obvious. He wondered just for a moment if his appearance was truly that odd when it clicked in his head: Sherlock’s homeless network. The detective must have sent out word to the inhabitants of London’s underbelly to keep an eye out for him.

John rolled his eyes, and cursed his annoying git for not listening. Because of course when had Sherlock Holmes had ever followed instructions, especially John’s? It was infuriating. Sherlock always had to be the one in charge…not this time. John was going to keep his infuriating love safe… even if it’s the only time. 

One of the faces called out to him from the alley. “Hey Doc, you got the time?”

There was a honk from behind him as John answered loudly. “Does it look like I got the time?”

Another two honks followed, covering whatever retorts the homeless network person might have said. This time, the noise came from right next to him, from the cab that had paused in the busy street. John turned, glaring at the cab as the window rolled down and he snapped. “What? You need the time too?”

The window was down, and smoke trailed out of the car. “Nope. Someone called a cab for you.”

Ah. And there was the Holmes interference front again. John bent down, partly glancing back at the homeless network, “You can tell them I’m not interested in-”

John stopped in midsentence when he turned his head towards the cabbie. He found a recognizable Sebastian Moran behind the wheel. One hand was actually on the wheel, while the other hand had a gun aimed in John’s direction. A lit cigarette hung from his lips as he grinned, pushing the other front door open for John. 

“I’m not on their errand.”

“Moriarty’s.” John stated aloud as he stepped back to avoid the door. “What happened to later tonight?”

Moran nodded. “The time’s changed. Later is now. Get in.”

John cast a glance to the CCTV perched on the nearest corner. It shook at him repeatedly like someone shaking ‘no’ with his or her head.

The doctor felt a twinge in his lower abdomen. Anxiety was kicking in, and at the thought… if Sherlock was watching… seeing him one last time through the camera… 

Sod that. 

He mouthed at the camera slowly; hoping that someone on the other side could decipher the message, ‘Keep them safe’. John was tempted to add more, a longer goodbye to Sherlock. But didn’t. His mind supplied him with the vision of Sherlock’s distressed and worried features, along with the tone. It could’ve been like Sherlock was here with him, easily calling him an idiot for what he was about to do.

John turned back to Moran, who was frowning at him around the cigarette. “You didn’t tell them you were going to the pool, were you? That’s going to tick him off, ruining the fun like that.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m trying to save Sherlock, not let Moriarty kill him.”

Moran shrugged, and glanced away for a moment, clearly stating without words exactly what he thought of John and of John’s plan. Moran huffed, sending dregs of smoke out from his nose. “Well, going solo probably wasn’t the way to do it. Too late now, toss the gun and let’s go.”

“I don’t have a gun,” John lied quickly and easily. 

He absolutely did not want to give up his only weapon, especially knowing where exactly he was going.

“I’m not an idiot either,” countered Moran, with a little wave of his own gun. “The second time I have to say it, won’t be pleasant for you.”

John’s face contoured with frustration, and a growl spilled from his throat as he remembered Issac Spoo and Douglas Hageman. Both men deserved to answer for their crimes legally, but this man had made it impossible. Moran probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot John. Just as John wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Moran. A list of possible scenarios went through John’s head. The soldier side of him that he had hid away from London came back to life. All of it came to naught. There was not enough time. John knew, and from the way Moran looked at him, he knew that too.

John still did not want to give up his weapon, no way in hell. “You wouldn’t kill me, not here and risk ruining his fun,” he argued.

“You’re right. I would just shoot to wound you.”

“At the risk of bleeding out?”

“There’s a difference between mostly dead, and completely dead. Are you leaving the gun or am I using mine?”

Knowing that there was no way he could win this bargain without earning an injury that he couldn’t afford, John growled. He jerkily yanked the gun from the small of his back, and popped out the magazine. It was a full one, and the knowledge of that, figuratively wounded him. He also checked the chamber, which was empty. Then John swiveled, and tossed the magazine into the alleyway. There was a light crash when it landed, far away and useless to him.

“Good enough?” John asked sharply. 

Moran flicked the ashes out the window before returning the cigarette back on his lips. “Hand it over,” his hand motioning for the empty pistol.

And John did.

The other man opened the cab divider and tossed the gun through the gap. John stared at it as it landed on the seat, wondering if he played the game right, if he had managed to make himself seem like a threat. A dangerous threat could be as good as having the loaded weapon. 

John pressed forward, he climbing into the cab, and closed the door behind him. Between the doors locked and and the click of his seatbelt made him feel like a prisoner, waiting on death row. Or a delivery en route. John couldn’t quite decide on which metaphor to use. John even wondered if it was the right time to even think about shit like this, but he knew… if Sherlock were here… the detective would have a good metaphor for situations like these…

Music with a familiar melody entertained the silence as they reentered into traffic. John was in thought, thinking of where he had heard the song playing before. He had just recognized it - at his Stag night. Something about hopeless, and love. Quite appropriate for his current situation, where he just found love and now it seems all hopeless and lost… 

“Traffic is fucking awful,” Moran complained, gesturing to the clusters of cars going nowhere fast on the road. “At this rate, I’m going to have to stop to pick up another pack. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

John snorted. “I don’t mind, no rush at all, really. Could do with a bit of lunch myself if we’re stopping.”

Moran chuckled, and turned his head, grinning at John as if they were mates going for a wild ride. “I know a pub with great fish and chips. They have great stouts too. What’s your poison, doctor?”

Traffic picked up again as John answered, feeling a bit odd by the friendly conversation he was having with the same person who was previously a Lord of parliament, who attempted to blow up said parliament with a bomb, who then turned out killer who was working for Moriarty. 

“A bit of everything.”

The other man hummed in agreement, and nodded his head in rhythm to the new song on the radio. He snuffed out his cigarette in the cup holder. “Everyone had their vices. We all die in the end anyways, might as well have something to enjoy in life.” 

Moran grunted as he shifted in his seat, pulling out a carton of cigarettes from his back pocket. Swiftly, he fished one out of the box, perching it where the first one had been. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Moran asked John, tossing the rest of the pack to into his lap, joining the gun still pointed at John. 

“No, but you should think about quitting,” John supplied automatically as if were talking to a patient in the clinic. 

Moran held the wheel with one knee as he patted down his jacket, and pulled out a lighter. He puffed as he lit up, and tossed the lighter to join everything else. It was silent for a moment, and then Moran exhaled; smoke trailing into the air as he spoke. 

“I thought about it. Thanks for the health talk.”

They turned around the corner, speeding down an empty road. “Are we taking the long route?” asked John. “Not that I’m complaining. I thought cabbies were supposed to be better than this.”

“Well, perhaps the cabbie in the boot is, but right now I’m killing a bit of time until he’s ready. He has big plans.”

“For who exactly?”

Moran shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t ask. The last bloke who did, I had to cut out his tongue.” 

John grimaced. “Pleasant.”

“And bloody.”

“But it’s safe to assume the plans are for either me or Sherlock, I’m guessing.”

Moran laughed and coughed a bit. “Yeah, it’s probably safe to guess that much.”

Silence fell in the cab again, leaving John to think. Moriarty was doing something big, apparently. Which may or may not end with death. John needed a plan, a weapon, and a way to get the advantage over Moriarty, however difficult that may be. As John sat, thinking, he stared at Moran’s fingers dancing to the beat on the steering wheel. 

From that small motion, John thought of a plan. 

He closed his eyes for a second, praying that his plan would work. 

Then John grabbed the steering wheel, yanking it with a hard turn, hoping the cab would drive onto the pavement so at least giving him the time to get the jump on Moran. He would either go for the gun, or at least make a decent get away to take Moriarty down on his own time. 

The other man shouted in surprise and he lost his lit cigarette into his lap. John didn’t count on that, but it was a toxic blessing. Moran continued to curse wildly. Either from John’s sudden attack or from the heat, John wasn’t too sure or concerned. All that mattered was Moran had abandoned the wheel for utter concern of his lap and prick, leaving John with all the control of the wheel.

In seconds, John braced as he saw the middle of the bonnet aimed straight towards the light post. There was a horrible metal crunch. For a second, John felt as though he was back in Afghanistan. He could feel the hot desert sun, taste the grit of sand, and hear the screams of his comrades from a surprise IED. John blinked, still dazed. But the desert disappeared, along with the rest of the war flashback, triggered from the crash. 

Even bracing for it, the impact knocked the breath out of him. 

Pain radiated inside and outside his torso, where his seat beat was and did it the job of holding him in. The remains of the airbag were sagged in his lap, thankfully deployed. Still, John felt as though he had been either punched in the face, or kicked in the jaw again. Either way, it hurts. But better than having his face smashed in, though he also wasn’t in a rush to repeat it.

He glanced over to Moran, who seemed to be stirring back as quickly as John. His eyes glared before an arm came swinging. John deflected, smashing the arm to the headrest. He swung his right, getting Moran in chin. Not the hit he wanted.

The arm John deflected earlier grabbed the side of John’s face, trying to push him into the plastic remains from the airbag. John sent another fist, and aimed. A howl of pain followed the audible crack in Moran’s elbow as John broke it. 

John blocked the other fist that flew towards him. 

Suddenly, Moran lunged. 

In the small space in front cab and still restricted with his seatbelt. John could only turn, throwing a bit of his knee to keep Moran from completely overwhelming him. He drew back, threw a fist into Moran’s ribs, and kept doing so until the man above him wheezed. 

He felt hands enclosed around his throat, and choking pressure followed albeit weak on one side. But, soon, if he didn’t get away, the light-headedness would appear. This certainly wasn’t the first time he was strangled. But Jesus Christ! He didn’t like it!

If Moran strangled him, John would lose everything before he got to Moriarty. Sherlock would be the only option left for the psychopath.

John reached for anything he could grab, knowing it would take more time to pry fingers away. He happened to grab the rest of his confining seatbelt strap. He threw his elbows down, crashing into both hinge joints of Moran’s arms, drawing Moran’s hands away. Moran let out another roar of pain and anger. 

With the constriction gone, John launched. 

He fixed the seatbelt around Moran’s neck, and pulled.

Moran garbled, his hands worked at the seatbelt for slack. But there wasn’t any because John was still wearing it, and John could see the visible moment in the man’s eyes when Moran realized it. Then Moran went slack and all the fight went with him. 

“Don’t!” Moran choked out. “I’m done, mate! I’m done!”

John didn’t let up. He watched as Moran panicked, thrashing as his face turning into a vivid scarlet. “He’ll kill me if I fail!”

Now that sounded familiar from that rat Douglas Hageman. John grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about Moriarty when I’m killing you now,” he countered dryly without an ounce of sympathy. “Where’s your gun?”

“Lost it!”

John hummed. “I don’t like that answer. Do better.”

“We crashed you barmy fucker!” shouted Moran with a wheeze. “I lost it when I was trying to keep my prick from burning!”

John pulled harder, just for spite. 

Moran coughed, his face was purpling now. “It’s in the cab somewhere! I can find it, just don’t!”

John let up, giving a bit of slack. The purple disappeared to a red when Moran gulped down air like a drowning man to water. Music trailed into the air, making the harsh breathing of both men vanish. 

“That’s him,” Moran supplied, then he added. “It’s time. We have about thirty minutes to get there.”

“Or what happens?”

Moran shrugged awkwardly. “I told you. I don’t ask. All I know is that we can’t make it on foot.”

John glanced across the road; looking at cars parked, with luckily zero witnesses around. He turned back to Moran. “You’re going into the boot of one of those cars. Either willingly or knocked out, understand?”

“I’m a bureaucrat, not an idiot. I’ll go willingly.”

John clicked the seatbelt free and pushed Moran off of him. He watched as Moran freed himself, and rubbed his bruising neck and they glared at each other. 

John grinned darkly. “You’re still an idiot, and now you’re my hostage.”

Moran frowned. “Yeah, I figured that.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight. Boot. Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It was fun to write. Thank you for all the comments and everything else. I don't know anything about guns, so all the names and everything was picking off of a gun site. I'm sorry if anything is wrong and please let me know about it. Thank you beta Whitehart for looking over this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal 

Chapter 33

“We don’t have time for this.” John broke the stalemate glare with Moran and declared exasperatedly. 

He pushed open the car door with both hands. Then paused at the opening, pondering on his current stalemated impromptu plan. The cab going into the post hadn’t been a part of it. Now, John had various backup plans to quickly weight through. There was a risk leaving Moran in the cab, alone, with a gun somewhere among the crushed metal. It was also a risk, having Moran out in the open, either to run, or attack again. Neither was ideal. 

“You stay here. Don’t move like a good hostage.”

“I can’t be a hostage to the both of you.”

John ignored Moran and glanced around. He hoped that the metal screech of protest that echoed in the quiet street wouldn’t attract any company. Any peering eyes or reports to the Met would go against the little time they had. As the criminal had said, they only had thirty minutes before Moriarty did something else. Whatever that was, it couldn’t be good. No, scratch that, it wouldn’t be, and John wasn’t really interested in finding out what it was. All he wanted to do, for now, was steal a car, put the first criminal in the boot, and get on the road to meet with the second criminal. 

He walked across the road, peering into cars casually. John was now regretting not letting Sherlock teach him how to hot wire a car, even if it was with YouTube videos on a quiet, ‘Sherlock strop level of boredom’ evening. Instead, he looked for the best car, and prayed to every deity he knew that there would be a spare key underneath. Or the simplest hope of an unlocked door from a careless owner. 

Another metal screech carried through the air as Moran climbed out of the driver’s side and shut the door with a stunned slam. Moran rubbed his hands together, like it was a job well done. 

John glared. “You were supposed to stay in the cab.”

“Well, someone ought to let the cabbie out of the boot. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually died seeing the way you totaled his cab.”

“You’re the one who stole it.” John bit out, eyes still focused on looking for the spare key.

“But I didn’t damage it. It attracts attention.” 

John rolled his eyes as if the conversation in the empty street wasn’t attracting enough attention. The sooner they were off, the better. He knelt down looking underneath a small well-traveled red car and countered, “Or, you mean you haven’t killed him yet? That’s surprising… you didn’t hesitate with Hageman or Spoo.”

“Or Mrs. Hageman, and the Izard poof.”

John froze, realising that Moran’s voice was way too close, and far too smug. 

And that’s what John gets for letting his guard down just a bit. 

Shit.

He straightened as Moran’s fist clocked him on the other side of the face. Blood burst within John’s mouth, and he charged up from the road in a tackle. His arms fixed around Moran’s middle as they both went down.

John’s forehead smashed into Moran’s chest as Moran took the brunt of the tackle, landing on the tar road with a wheezed groan. Good because John still used the skills from his old rugby days. Tackling criminals was something he was very well versed- in; thanks to the Work he did with Sherlock. John scrambled up Moran’s body, getting leverage to deliver a punch. But he paused at the stunned look on Moran’s face, and the man’s arms uselessly sprawled on the road. 

It looked like Moran was knocked out. John checked the man’s pulse. It was fine, until it wasn’t, and that’s when Moran opened his eyes. Rage. Undiluted anger narrowed in John’s direction.

Moran’s hand fixed around John’s wrist that tried yet failed to incapacitate him. Instead, it was Moran who grimaced from attack. John rolled away, and drew to his feet. Liking that there was space between them, and John was at his full height. 

“I thought you said you weren’t an idiot, yet you’re doing a wonderful job proving otherwise. We don’t have time for this shit, let’s find a key, and then we can get back to it.”

The other man drew to his feet. Pain simply radiated from his body. “I can’t go back not after becoming your hostage. He’ll kill me.”

“So, you thought you would have another go at me?”

Moran spat on the ground. “You don’t get it, do you? I owe him. This life, killing people, not exactly what I signed on for when I asked him for a favour. I’m his until my debt is paid.”

“You should’ve gone to prison then, serve your time for attempting to blow up the parliament. Then you wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe,” Moran stated flatly after a silence carried through the air. “But I really didn’t want to end up in prison. I was choosing between two evils.”

John arched his eyebrows, and felt the slightest of stings at his hairline. “Moriarty isn’t the lesser evil here.”

“Yeah, I got that now but I could still live the way I wanted.”

“Until you couldn’t.”

Moran shrugged, but didn’t argue John’s words. “I can’t go back empty handed, or show I was overpowered. I’m better off dead to him if I couldn’t play my part.”

“Then run,” John nodded over to the busy road. “I doubt you’ll go far considering…” 

His eyes flickered over the CCTV watching the scene. The rest of his words went unsaid. If it weren’t Moriarty, then it would be Mycroft. John would place money on Mycroft in that bet.

“So, that’s it then? Torture by Moriarty or by the older Holmes? Tough choice.”

“And it’s yours-” Both men started at each other, fists still in defense when John heard a car from the next street. “May I go back to it or—?” John motioned to the cars.

Moran relaxed, waved him on and asked, “Oh yeah, go on. How’s the older Holmes in the after glow?”

John snorted at the man’s sarcasm and followed with a frown. But he didn’t feel any pity. It was their choices that got them here in the first place. “I really don’t want to think about it,” he answered.

“Fair enough.”

\- John returned to the red car and thankfully found a spare key magnet container under the bonnet. He quickly snatched it up, popping it open to find blessed spare key he had been hoping for. He slipped the key container into the dressing gown pocket. Next time, John was definitely going to take Sherlock up on his offer for hot wiring lessons. 

There was movement in the corner of his eye, and John drew back, swinging his fist into the air automatically. The force radiated up his arm as John’s knuckles cracked into Moran’s nose. 

But that still didn’t stop Moran’s fist grazing against John’s cheek. A fresh wave of blood flooded into his mouth as skin meshed into teeth. 

“What the hell is your problem?!” John bellowed. “I thought we were done!” 

He maneuvered around Moran as the man charged. John kicked out Moran’s knee, and the man went down. John fixed his arm underneath Moran’s throat, and held it there. Until Moran stopped moving, and John removed his arm. 

Moran flopped face-first into the road. Hopefully, this way would last longer. 

John sighed, and swallowed the lump in his throat to calm down his beating heart. He bent down, and pressed his fingers to Moran’s pulse. Still alive. But, John wouldn’t promise a third chance. Moran was definitely going into the boot for safekeeping. 

He groaned when he thought of something else, something he wished he had thought of in the beginning. He stood up, ignoring the dizzy wave that overcame him, and wished at the same time that people would stop hitting him in the head for god’s sake. 

He wiped the tang from his mouth on sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown. John went back to the wrecked cab, and seemingly kept an eye on Moran at the same time. He pulled the key from the ignition. 

John walked to the boot, turned the key to open it. He put on a calm demeanor for the hostage cabbie, getting ready to explain, despite his appearance, he was a doctor and would help. But, there was no cabbie, only a black bag, still open as if Moran was too much in a rush to close it, showing an array of weaponry. 

“That utter sodding wanker…” 

Moran had been going for the boot earlier under the guise of letting the cabbie out. But choose to attack John instead. Thank god for that. 

The rest of John’s curses morphed into pleased mumbling. That was one less thing to worry about. He would face Moriarty with a gun after all and didn’t have to waste time looking for the lost gun in the cab. He grabbed a Beretta from the top and tucked it into his trousers. He zipped up the bag, and placed on the pavement for later. He did not want to have Moran and the guns occupy the same space.

John stalked back over to Moran, and nudged him with his foot once before pinning Moran down with it. Moran didn’t flinch from the pressure. John pulled the gun out and aimed.

“I swear if you are faking it, and you attack me again. I will bloody well shoot you.”

The other man didn’t recoil or make a sound. John unloaded and reloaded the gun right above Moran’s head, intentionally making it louder than it normally would. When Moran didn’t flinch, he knew the criminal was really out of it, and safetly tuck the gun. 

He grabbed Moran’s legs, and dragged the man across the road to the cab’s open boot. John wrestled with getting Moran inside, being deadweight in all aspects and the man was taller than he was. But John successfully prisoned Moran in the boot, with Moran earning his fair share in head injuries. 

Now, for John’s next mission.

John snatched the black bag from the pavement, fished out the spare key from the pocket, opened the container, and unlocked the door. A part of him waited for the alarm to go off, as if the car would somehow recognise that he shouldn’t be there. It didn’t. John placed the black bag on the passenger side. John felt like a criminal. A part of him hated doing this but it was necessary, so he started the car anyways, and put it into drive. 

His eyes flickered between the mirror, the road, and the houses, waiting for someone to say stop. When John turned the corner, he felt like he had gotten away with it. He felt adrenaline rushing through his veins, and relief began to wash over him. Is this what criminals feel every time they get away with something? No wonder they’d get addicted to this.

John drove in silence, wondering nervously about his plans with Moriarty, and how much time he had left. His mind wandered, worrying about Sherlock. He thought of how to go about staying alive, and what sort of weapons did he have in his goody bag. Most importantly, how long it would take him to get to the pool. For everyone’s sake, especially Sherlock’s, he didn’t want to find out what would happen if he didn’t get there on time.

He weaved through traffic as much as he could, undoubtedly attracting attention by squeezing the small red car between the lanes with sides scraping against other cars, leaving trails of red in his wake. Under his breath, John either gave curses or apologies up until he stopped in the car park of the swimming centere.

He was here. Finally.

John dove into the black bag. He found another loaded 9mm Beretta pistol that seemed promising. He also found two Smith & Wesson’ Model 66 Combat Magnum Revolvers, which made him roll his eyes. All he would need with that would be a cowboy hat and challenge Moriarty to a dusty gunslinger fast draw. There was also a pump-action Mossberg Maverick 88 Shotgun that John wouldn’t mind keeping at the end of all this. That is if he was alive and well at the end of all this. Lastly, there was a Savage 10 BA Stealth action rifle, with its scope. The rest of bag had a hodgepodge of ammunition, accessories for wear and cleaning. 

Even with an arsenal that promised stealth, efficiency, or a bloody mess, John still yearned for his Sig back at the flat. He knew its capabilities, its range, and the shape of it that fit comfortably in his hand. But he didn’t have his Sig. The 9mm Beretta, and one Smith &Wesson would have to do. He zipped up the remaining guns in the bag. 

John got out of the beaten red car, and tucked the Smith & Wesson in the small of his back. The Beretta could remain in his hand, thank you very much. He locked the door, and went marching across the car park. The facility was kept neat, along with the hedges. An abstract fountain splashed in the corner. It seemed to radiate an atmosphere of peace. But the actual feeling walking into the place was far from peace. The atmosphere swirled like impending war, and John was on the front lines of it. He paused in front of the glass doors, took in his hardened reflection, took a deep breath, pulled open the door.

… and walked in.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scars. Seven. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it folks! The last chapter! I may do a couple extras or a sequel eventually..as of right now...I have real life things to tend to. Thank you everyone! I do want to say, that this chapter may not be what you expect, it certainly wasn't when I was writing it. I do hope you like it, if you have questions- comment! Thank you beta Whitehart who picked up my fic in the middle and to the end and thank you to beta englandwouldfalljohn for getting it started and helping me plot out ideas. Both betas were amazing to clean up my icky writing. So, here it goes!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any other variations.

Live Nudes In Charcoal

Chapter 34

He walked through the cream coloured lobby. His footsteps reverberated loudly on the wooden flooring. John walked past the front desk. It was eerily quiet, sending alarms off in John’s head that something wasn’t right. There should have been voices, noise, and music, anything of some sort to breath life into this place. It was as silent as death itself in a place that wasn’t supposed to be closed down for the night quite yet. It was far too early for that.

John briefly wondered about the existence of another person. He had taken care of Moran, who hopefully was now in Mycroft’s custody, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t another person lingering about, waiting for him in the shadows. Besides Moriarty, of course. Although, there weren’t any shadows in the corners of the walls. Bright overhead lights made sure of that. But still…

It wasn’t paranoia.

Years of high adrenaline experiences had taught John one thing – never underestimate your enemies. One should always be alert. He wouldn’t be surprised if someone jumped him at the entrance. After all, he had done the same for Sherlock when they tail criminals across the alleys of London. They always had each other, needed each other. 

John looked over the edge of the front counter, gun at the ready, expecting either an enemy or a victim. It was clear. No one was tuckered away in order to get the jump on him. For now. No bodies either, lying in the well-worn carpet, oozing blood or bone. Not even a vacant stare that came with them. John turned left going over the carpeted floor, and past several dark offices before reaching the pool entrance. Memories from their last visit here flooded through his veins, reliving the emotions he felt when they left this building with all their limbs, and alive. 

John pushed open the door. 

Instantly, he was smacked with the scent of chlorine and a wave of heat when he stepped inside. His mind supplied another flash of memories, the weight of semtex, the little annoying voice buzzing in his ear, and the look on Sherlock’s face when John had walked out of the dressing room, and the proper meeting of two men that John had gotten in the middle of.

The door slammed shut behind him, breaking him away from the past, and bringing him back to now and the troubles ahead. He paused at the edge of the pool, standing on the tan tiles, staring at the two motionless bodies, floating in the blue waters. Long dark hair drifted in the small current. A pair high heeled shoes, joined with a handbag perched in front of a dressing room and a pair of loafers, along with a wallet was in front of the second dressing room. 

He couldn’t tell if they were breathing. He couldn’t tell if either person had a healthy flush to their skin because of the blue light. But there was something about their stillness that told John they were both dead. 

But he had also been tricked before. 

“They’re dead, but you just can’t be too sure about it, can you?”

The distorted garble turned John’s attention from the bodies, to the smiling person who asked the question. The Beretta aimed for the man sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a sharp black suit, legs covered in a pale yellow blanket, next to the water.

A voice John had burned into the back of his mind. The voice in his ear while he was strapped with C4, right at this spot. The voice of the man who caused nothing but pain and sadness in their lives… it echoed, “Because after all, I’m still here.”

“Moriarty.” John whispered while wondering if he was hallucinating.

“That is me. Hi!” 

The consulting criminal’s hair was slicked back and there were scars from what John could see but the pleased gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. John marched forward in disbelief, the black shoes slapped against tile, much like shock slapped John despite seeing the man in the flesh. 

He wasn’t as he was years ago… but really, who else was the same?

John immediately noticed the scars around Moriarty’s chin, thick, long healed blotches where the skin has to be patched together. John could relate in that, which made him frown. He never wanted to relate to anything when it came to Moriarty, the man who had sent the Jefferson Hope after Sherlock, who had tortured people for hours because of some stupid puzzles, and ultimately lead to Sherlock’s disappearance from his life for two years.

From Moriarty’s tone, it seemed that his self-inflicted gunshot didn’t only injury his physical transport, but also from where the shot exited, damaging delicate tissues and nerves. It would have taken months, perhaps years for rehabilitation. He would need- centuries of technological enhancements and all the luck in the world for him to bounce back to his previous condition. A gunshot to the head would have required multiple surgeries in order to rebuild what was damaged- to the brain, bone, nerves, and taking care of the scarring. Relearning how to talk, eat, and care for himself. Not many people survive it and for a supposedly claimed dead man, Moriarty was breathing and talking to John himself.

It was almost having a living ghost. A very unwelcomed one at that.

“Who were they?” John countered, pressing forward from the flesh and blood surprise and, nodded over the two people in the pool.

“Really no one of importance like Moran. Is his sniveling lordship dead? He was supposed to escort you here.”

“No.”

“Pity.” He spat that word out in distain. -“For someone who wanted my help, he sure wasn’t grateful for it. Would whine about everything. It took him about six months or so to see things my way. Breaking him-” Moriarty paused, and cleared his throat when his voice grew too garbled to understand. “Sorry… breaking him gave me something to do during recovery, but it wasn’t the same as being here, playing the game.”

John swallowed the lump his throat, swelling by the second from Moriarty’s indifference. Moran was a prick… maybe a lot more than that, but killing him would have pleased Moriarty. John was glad that he didn’t, but he rather wished he had done more than just trapping him in the boot of a cab.

John looked back at the bodies, looking around for any threats, analyzing the situation. Could this be another one of Moriarty’s tricks? Another game?

“How do I know they’re dead?”

“By all means, dive right in and check. I wouldn’t recommend it. They had to die from something.”

“From what?”

“Where’s the fun if I had told you?” A sly grin emerged on Moriarty’s face.

He glanced between the water and Moriarty, and stated. “You did manage to surprise us with the light show last time we were here.”

“Great times,” sighed Moriarty, almost as if he were reminiscing, maybe he was… John didn’t know. Then Moriarty nodded over to the people in the pool. “But no guns this time. They were entertainment for me while waiting for you and Sherlock but they didn’t even last twenty minutes. They’re the last piece of a message, and it’s required to solve the puzzle. Want to take a stab at what would be your prize?”

John gave Moriarty a cold stare. “Sherlock.”

“Bingo! Now what do you think about this? Clever, isn’t it?” Moriarty motioned over to the pool.

“You killed them just to send me a clue?” 

“No, I didn’t do it! Don’t like getting my hand dirty in that mess. They had a choice and they killed themselves. I just watched. Now, speaking of Sherlock…” 

Moriarty made a show to look over John’s shoulder as if John were hiding Sherlock somewhere. “Where is he?”

“Not here.” John delivered a terse reply, which Moriarty disregarded with a laugh. 

“Should I expect him to jump out of the shadows, holding a gun to my head?” 

Moriarty shook his head and he pushed the wheelchair forward, edging closer to the water. “No, no, no. That wouldn’t be like him, would it? Not enough flair for a dragon slayer, too predictable, too boring and he wouldn’t risk you… not his pet. He’s hiding someplace, holding a little red light to my forehead this time, tell me, is there a light on my forehead?”

John shook his head, looking at the man whose expression was dancing on part glee and disappointment. It was like Moriarty already known, and everything he was doing was a power play, to maybe toy with John’s head one last time. It wasn’t going to happen. “You know the answer to that.”

“NO! This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be!” The wheelchair inched a little away from John.

John shook his head, and pressed his mouth together in a thin line, wary from Moriarty’s outburst and of the man himself. For all that Moriarty sounded and looked like, there was no way to measure how he would lash out. No way to tell if everything that John saw was real, or if it was faked- everything from his emotional outburst to being in a wheelchair. He was scarred much like John himself. There was no way to tell if Moriarty even had a weapon of some sort, planted nearby. 

“Well, that’s the way it’s going now. There’s no light. No Sherlock. It’s come down to you and me here Moriarty. One of us is dying tonight, or both if that’s what it takes. But you’re not allowed to come back from the dead a second time.”

“Ooh! This is interesting, killing me to try to make a happy storybook ending. But, there’s something you missed. He needs me, a dragon to slay. To match him. I am the only one who can thrill him, stimulate him, challenge him, and make him dance. Your stagnant stupidity would never understand, how bored, tedious everyone is. What Sherlock and I are, together, will always be-”

“Nothing, not while I’m around,” John finished sternly. “Sherlock is, and will be nothing like you.”

“Spoken like a overprotective boyfriend. Booooring! You’re just proving the point, you morooon! In the end, it will always be him and I. We are gods among men, flying in high in the sky. You’re just a sliver of ordinary, a boring staying alive peon.”

All the words in Moriarty’s speech had been words John has echoed to himself at one point or another in his association with Sherlock. Sherlock… is a brilliant man, who in turn, had gone against Moriarty’s words. Sherlock needed him, just as John needed Sherlock. 

John chose his words carefully, gauging the look on the scarred individual before him. “You may match him in ways that I’ll never fathom, Moriarty. But I’m the one he chose; maybe Sherlock needs more of the ordinary than you think.”

The expression on Moriarty’s face morphed into disgust. “I think he’s had too much of ordinary,” the man’s eyes flickered up and down John’s frame, undoubtedly taking in Sherlock’s dressing gown, shirtless, and in tight trousers on John’s compact body. The insane man sneered. “I’ve seen it. Not tooo difficult to hack into security cameras, you know.”

A ripple of violation shuddered through John, and he tried to not that he let it show any. Perhaps, he wasn’t too successful in hiding it because Moriarty grinned like a cat that got the cream, and he continued, “No wonder Sherlock wasn’t all that receptive to me. Though he did look sexy on his knees over the video. I really wish I had audio…”

“That’s enough.”

Moriarty clammed his mouth shut, pressing his lips together, and make a show to lock his mouth shut. He threw the imaginary key into the water. But dark eyes glittered happily, still looking as if he had won something. Moriarty wasn’t allowed to feel that way; John wouldn’t give him that. 

“I don’t care if you’ve seen us together. I only care to remedy that it’s going to be the last time.”

“I understand… don’t care for sharing. I know what it’s like, having all his attention on you. After all, I had his attention before you came along. But that is in the past now, like a lot of things.”

“Like you should be.”

“Rude,” huffed Moriarty, then he added brightly. “I have a question for you.”

“A question,” John echoed disbelievingly and scoffed. “What kind of question?”

“Do you enjoy killing people?”

John narrowed his eyes, and furrowed his brow together. Silence grew within aquatic center. John could feel sweat growing behind his knees as he stared at Moriarty. Was it another trick in one form or another? He could be overthinking the situation, but in any way he’s glad to be the one with a gun in his hand. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not supposed to! Just answer!”

“What happens if I do? Will people die?” asked John, thinking back to what Moran had said in the cab. That Moriarty had planned for something to happen, and John could expect it to be a large, grander scale.

Moriarty motioned to the pool. “People die all the fucking time, get over it!”

Silence followed behind Moriarty’s words. Holding up the gun to aim was making John’s shoulder strain, adding to the pain from the car crash, being tied in a wooden chair, and the activities that he had gotten into with Sherlock… that being the least he minded, and being on the list of more than willing to repeat. Damn shoulder and all. But this, standing before Moriarty with a gun, whatever this standstill was, it needed to end. 

“You’ll be one of them,” John said flatly, breaking into the silence. 

He walked closer to the man, close enough to be sure the second bullet would do the job that the first one didn’t. He didn’t aim for the head, but aimed for the heart. It had to be in Moriarty’s chest. Then perhaps, he would put another one in the head. 

“Oh. Undoubtedly, you’ve had that thing pointed at me for something and for sometime now, you should use it…come on…” Moriarty leaned forward and pushed his chest against the muzzle, “blow me away.”

In this moment that John could bring the end to all things. He would stare Moriarty in the eyes and watch his life seep away from them. This man- monster had created nothing but pain for all who came across him. John slowly squeezed the trigger… 

“I’m going to steal your story book ending from you.”

Before John could question, Moriarty lunged, splashing into the pool. 

Instinctively, John went after him. The Beretta clacked on the tile as John went for the wheelchair, missing the occupant. The yellow blanket floated on the surface of the water. 

And Moriarty sank to the bottom of the pool with a grin on his face. Almost challenging John to follow and complete his mission. 

John jumped to his feet, wretched off Sherlock’s dressing down.

“DON’T, JOHN!”

John turned away from the waters edge and to the owner of the familiar baritone. Sherlock was there, standing immaculate as always, who had escaped his brother’s watchful eye after all. Long limbs carried his detective towards him, and a pale hand caught his own. The hand tightened around John’s hand either holding him back, or forgiving him, he wasn’t certain. 

“Give me one-“ John swallowed the lump his throat, and motioned to the man in the pool with his free hand. “Why not-” 

“The pool water is poisoned with a chemical mixture of arsenic and cyanide,” Sherlock answered flatly. “He’ll be dead in minutes.”

John watched through the blue surface, the rising bubbles as the gleam of dark eyes disappeared forever. It only took seven minutes, but it was the most satisfying seven minutes in John’s life, knowing that the biggest threat between himself and Sherlock is now gone, forever.

Arms fixed around him. John reached Sherlock in returned. He rested his face against Sherlock’s chest, where he could hear the steady drum of the detective’s beating heart. They were alive. 

All they could hear was each other’s loud breathing. A surge of relief washed through John when Sherlock carded his fingers through his greying-blond hair. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting himself relax.

“Can we go home now?” John groaned, suddenly feeling every muscle in his body aching, and a sharp pain tearing through his shoulder. He felt his knees buckling, but a pair of strong arms held around his torso, holding him upright.

Gently, Sherlock tugged on his partner, nudging him to stay on his feet. “Do come along, John.”

John opened his eyes. 

Literally, and he saw the largest grin Sherlock has ever had on his face, the loving gleam in his eyes made John’s heart skip a beat. 

Figuratively, John realised he would not be able to live without this madman, and all the things they had been through for each other was worth it. It was worth this moment.

Finally.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
